Roadrunner

by Michael Lilly

  I consider my options. I could go inside and have a frightfully awkward reunion. That would throw off my ostensible plan to get some sleep, as my mother wouldn’t let me to my bedroom without heavy small talk and arbitrary pleasantries.

  I could turn right around, walk back to the car, pick the lock and hotwire it after all, and drive up to Albuquerque, but I’m not all that inclined to risk causing any damage to Todd’s car by not using the keys. I could order a cab and wait two hours for it to arrive, all the while kept awake by a lesion of excessive worry festering and writhing on the surface of my mind like a chasm infested with rabid bats. I could try to sneak in and grab my spare keys without her noticing (though as I think it, she leans back and folds her arms, not too attentive, but only feet away from the rack of keys containing the necessary spare).

  None of these options particularly grips me, but it’s time for action. I decide on a bastard combination of two options: I can go inside, tell my mother that I have an emergency, grab my keys, and split. I can stay in our room in Albuquerque and spend tomorrow at the hospital with Todd. I can’t share those details with her, however, as she’s apt to tag along.

  Back in Riverdell, she showed up on my doorstep unannounced. It was my first time seeing her in years; she fled for her own safety after a particularly brutal beating inflicted upon her by my father. She claims that she tried to take us with her when she left, but was unable to do so without engaging Dad’s notice. I’m inclined to believe her, if only because my sanity is dependent, to some degree, on having some degree of confidence that at least one of my parents is capable of love, that my genes come from a pool that isn’t completely devoid of humanity, of empathy. Perhaps my mother’s presence here tonight can further illustrate that point.

  Naturally, our relationship became strained the moment it was given a renewed breath of life; no matter the motives or intents, something about “You left me in an abusive household” incites a tenacious, enduring sense of betrayal, and for those emotions I will not apologize.

  In an attempt to be open-minded and forgiving, I’ve allowed her an amount of opportunity to establish trust, to build rapport. We couldn’t very well jump into our old routines, Trina playing the piano and singing while Mom and I cook dinner. Certainly, that Christmas card version of our relationship is more appealing to both of us, but there are walls and boundaries in place preventing that from being possible, and I fortify my walls quite extensively, intentionally or not. A history of abuse can do that to a person.

  After a while, it became normal. Almost comfortable, even. She would come over on Sundays and have dinner. Often, Beth came over as well, and we played card games and watched the occasional movie. It all began to feel like I might be able to achieve a normal mother-son relationship.

  But then, all at once, it started to feel forced, arbitrary. Fake, even. Even now, I can’t put my finger on what did it, but for the couple of months before Todd and I moved to Wometzia, a strain of discomfort impeded any further progress, like a diver realizing that his equipment doesn’t support him going any deeper. A fundamental component of our relationship needs retrieving, repairing, rebuilding, and until I can identify and remedy that, we’re at an emotional stalemate; I’m stuck behind a puzzle with missing pieces, and she refuses to back up enough to see that it’s incomplete. Until she is prepared to create that necessary distance, we can grow no closer. I can understand her hesitance, being that our lives had been separate for over a decade, but she needs either to back off or to recognize that our relationship has already reached the peak of its very limited potential.

  I walk up by the front walkway, which is usually an affirmation that my day at work is finished and I get to spend the evening with Todd. The contrast between that reality and this cruel one, in which Todd is in the hospital a hundred miles away and my mother is in the kitchen instead, is disheartening.

  I open the door and my mom calls from the kitchen.

  “Jeremy, it’s me! I’m in the kitchen!”

  “Remy, Mom. Call me Remy.”

  “So that wasn’t just a phase because of that one guy?”

  “Nope.” I wonder how big a role my dishonesty by omission has in the tenuous quality of our relationship. I admit to myself that it probably plays quite a big role indeed, but there’s no Hallmark card for ‘I killed Dad and framed his only friend for it. Lots of love.’ At least, to my knowledge. I suppose a measure of the tumult here is my fault, but accepting culpability puts me in a position of truth and exposure with which I’m not comfortable.

  I enter the kitchen as she gets up. The first thing I notice is that she looks a great deal more aged than when I last saw her in Riverdell. I might attribute the contrast to the extended absence. One might wish to blame her lack of makeup, but she never wore any before, either. She claimed that it would be disrespectful to God to cover up the face that He made just for her. At times, I’m tempted to point out that clothing does just that, but the risk that she actually heeds that as advice rather than discarding it all in one heap is too great. Instinct and a general idea of how my mother works tell me that this is a blatant lie, anyway; I’m sure that the lack of makeup is a celebration of her freedom—Dad used to criticize her for her makeup (or the absence of it), sending her back to the bathroom five or six times to fix mascara or eyeliner (not that he knew what they were called—‘that black shit on your eyes’ was the extent of his cosmetic vocabulary). On those occasions, the only thing keeping her from crying was that she would ruin her makeup and have to start from the beginning.

  My mother has always been beautiful—even in her most pitiful sobs, she radiates beauty, the kind that begs to be put onto a canvas or immortalized by sculpture or song or even the lead in a movie. When I was younger, when her departure was still fresh, I liked to imagine that some hotshot Hollywood casting director found her, distraught, at a diner, removed his hotshot sunglasses in order to get a better look, and offered her a part in a three-movie deal as the badass lead protagonist double agent.

  That said, even though she looks more aged, her beauty is one that grows in class and purity over time, like that of Julie Andrews or Meryl Streep. In fewer words, my mother is still radiant.

  “Remy,” she says, not addressing me but listening to the sound. She mulls it over for a moment, as if she hasn’t been calling me that for five months. I suppose she thought she’d get to call me by my given name. After not seeing her kids for so long, she must have fantasized countless times about our reunion, and in each of them, she would have called me Jeremy. Sorry to disappoint, Ma.

  She smiles her captivating smile, and even in the midst of my anticipation and wariness of her presence, I’m drawn in, to an extent.

  “Remy, can we talk? I won’t intrude long, I’ve found a place in town to stay for the night. I just … I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our relationship over the past couple of months, especially since you’ve been away.” Every few syllables, her eyes change direction and her posture shifts. This is as uncomfortable for her as it is for me.

  “Mom, that sounds great, but I have an emergency to take care of. I can’t tell you any specifics”—Eh. It’s true—“but it’s a work emergency and I have to get going.” Half true?

  “Oh, umm, okay.” She’s deflated, devastated, and I feel like the shittiest son since Norman Bates. The drive from Oregon to New Mexico is not a short one, and my mother is the type to spend the entirety of the drive romanticizing this chat we’re supposed to have. I guess I can’t blame her for being put out, particularly after the extensive effort it took to convince her that my move was not in an attempt to get away from her.

  “Stay another night or two, Mom. You can even stay here if you want. But I need to go. I just came to pick up my spare key and my dog.” Poor Odin must be frantic and hungry. I pick my keys off the rack and call for my dog, who then saunters in with the disoriented, blinking eyes of a dog who was just dreaming. When he gains his usual focus, he trots toward me and I k
neel down to pet him. In all the excitement, I didn’t realize how much I missed Odin. I affix his leash to his collar, hug my mother goodbye, and walk back out the door.

  Odin rides shotgun and sits patiently while I call the hotel in Albuquerque to get a pet-friendly room for the night. They offer to have my other reservation transferred and to move all of our stuff, but I dislike the idea of strangers handling Todd’s and my things.

  Odin’s excitement mounts, a combination of seeing me after an absence and being on a car ride, but being the well-behaved canine that he is, he limits his expression of that excitement to a wagging tail flurry and a contented pawing back in forth in a rhythmic sway.

  I check in at the hotel (yes, I’m prepared to pay for both rooms) and go up to the first room, where Todd and I stayed last night, and gather Todd’s and my things in individual backpacks. Before I step into the hallway, my phone vibrates.

  Todd texted me: “Hey, what was that one movie with the guy who tracks down some rich guy’s kid in Brazil? Had The Rock in it, I think?”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure,” I say.

  Todd doesn’t forget things. That movie is The Rundown. If intuition serves, this is Todd’s veiled way of telling me that I’m being hunted. On what grounds and by whom, I’m not sure, but the familiar target on my back glows bright and clear. I put my phone back into my pocket and begin to open the door before I hear a stampede on the floor. Then I hear the voices in the hallway and on the move.

  “He’s in that one,” one of them says. Fortunately, he’s wrong, evident by my door not getting kicked down by a throng of bloodthirsty men. I think I found my hunters. Now to escape before they find me back.

  The sensation of being hunted is one with which I am acquainted, but certainly not comfortable. I compose a quick text message to Todd: “Love you.”

  If I’m being hunted, every one of my personal relationships is under close, professional scrutiny. With that in mind, I have precious little time in which to embrace the idea that I may not see some of them for a while. Maybe forever.

  My mother will most likely think I am running, and lied outright about my intent to return home. Beth and Todd are savvy to my personal hobby of murder, so they know that if I disappear during the night, it’s a tossup regarding whether or not it was by choice.

  My heart aches at the idea of not seeing them for some indefinite amount of time, but it’s sounding more and more like Romero wasn’t bluffing in his ominous warning. At this moment, I don’t have time to reflect on what this situation means for me. I need to get out and get invisible.

  By the sound of it, my hunters went to the room I just got, meaning that this room isn’t far from being searched. All it will take is a return to the front desk and an inquiry about my room. Their confidence in my room number suggests that the receptionist (or whoever their source is) didn’t tell them about the first room. At least, not yet.

  Assuming that they’ll now make a return trip to the front desk, asking about my whereabouts and whenabouts, that’s my opportunity to escape. There’s a chance that they’ll just decide I’ve fled and head out themselves, in a wild search of the streets, but the odds of that happening aren’t great enough for me to risk.

  I listen at the door, waiting for the tempest of profanities sure to ensue when they realize that I’m not only not there, but also haven’t even been in that room. In the meantime, I study the small map on the wall of the hotel and locate the room I am in. The map displays instruction on what to do in the event of a fire, the fastest route to the emergency stairs indicated by a solid red line tipped with an arrow.

  The front desk and lobby area are in the southeast corner of the building. The primary exit, of course, is there. In addition, there’s a service entrance behind the kitchen, but any attempt for that route would surely draw attention to me and I thus rule it out.

  I nearly miss the last exit, one that sits on the southwest corner of the main floor. The only elevator is close to my room, on the east side, but it looks like there’s a stairway leading to that exit.

  I put Odin’s leash back on him and wait at the door. The herd of footsteps passes once again, in the direction of the elevators. It’s hard to say for sure, but the sound seems to be of the same volume as before, and I hope I can trust that to mean that nobody stayed behind to keep an eye on the hallway.

  My hope proves fruitful as I walk into the hallway to find it deserted. Odin’s collar and leash jingling lightly as we go, we head toward the west end, where the stairwell lies in wait.

  A few seconds later, we open the door to the tall, echoing chamber containing the stairs, and race down them as fast as Odin can keep up; stairs are not an ergonomic match for dogs. Soon, we hit the bottom landing, and I open the door leading outside. As in the old days, the night welcomes me.

  I can’t use Todd’s car anymore, as many people, inside and outside the force, know that I drive it commonly. So instead of going toward the parking lot, I head toward the back, past the service gate, then out onto a busy road to the east.

  Getting to the hospital is an easy enough affair, but I don’t dare approach the main entrance. Instead, I pull out a sheet of paper (Todd keeps notebooks in his backpack) and write a note to Todd on it. I tuck it snugly under Odin’s collar.

  “Go find Todd, boy!” I say.

  A useful side effect of Odin being so highly trained is that he knows our names and scents. I have full confidence that my message will be delivered within the minute. I watch Odin until he trots into the automatic sliding doors, sniffing his way to my boyfriend.

  My eyes water, but I manage to hold the tears in check. I crouch for a moment, stationary, just outside the glow of the parking lot’s lights, my mind afire with a single question: What now?

  The short answer is simple: Become invisible. Flee, escape, melt into the shadows and never look back. Nine months ago, I did something similar, but with a child in my arms, and again the night before that. These were the most recent times that my teenage obsession with parkour came in handy, and a part of me had hoped that moving to New Mexico would help me let go of it as a necessity.

  Back in November, I first used it to divide our opposition’s forces and draw their attention from Beth, Todd, and the late head of forensics, Ron Sanders. The following night, I used it to transport a little girl from our out-of-gas car to the police station while under the same intense scrutiny as before. In both of those cases, my motive had been noble, protective. Now, I’m to evade and vanish with the effectiveness of a wisp of smoke, but it’s for no one’s gain but my own.

  I am the killer. But up until now, I hadn’t really seen myself as the bad guy. But if there is indeed evidence against me, my only options are to nip it in the bud or disappear quite entirely. If there’s a cleverer maneuver, I can only hope that it comes to me soon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a pair of alert-looking guys, patrolling, making their way toward me. I trusted my darkness up to this point to conceal me, but on the path that the patrol is taking, they’ll come too close to me for my shroud to remain effective.

  In a last-ditch effort to remain concealed, I tuck my face into my arm; maybe, if I remove as much of the contrasting white as possible, the dark of night can come through for me once more.

  A combination of suspense and blatant awkward positioning renders my breathing heavy and labored, but that’s all right with me as long as I can keep it quiet. The chirping and buzzing of crickets and cicadas serve to mask me with admirable effectiveness, but to me, my breathing sounds deafening. The heat of the night grips me and I feel sweat beginning to bead on my neck. The heat from my breath on my arm is growing uncomfortable, and my joints begin to protest my crouch, my knees and ankles in a desperate battle with my will over their intense desire to move before the pressure building within them explodes.

  The patrol moves closer in rhythmic footsteps that I try not to think of as a death march.

  The footsteps stop.

  In my small window of sigh
t of the grass around my feet, I see the oppressively bright light of a flashlight; I’ve been spotted.

  I look up and see that they’re neither Albuquerque PD nor NMPD. They’re rent-a-cops, hired as facility security for the hospital. They look at me with matching expressions of surprise and I feel myself return the favor.

  Before I can sufficiently assess the wisdom in doing so, I run.

  I cover a solid third of the parking lot before the men start after me, as far as I can hear. To the best of my ability (and the availability of darkness) I dodge between pools of light and the bright, sweeping beams of headlights from expensive SUVs pulling out of the parking lot. My backpack pounds against my back with every step, but its contents aren’t cumbersome enough to slow me down much.

  An echoing clash of shouts, orders to stop (like that has ever worked), and fading grunts dwindles in volume behind me; I’m gaining ground rapidly. Once out of the parking lot, I pause for a moment, against any logically inclined cells in my brain. I want to continue, but I haven’t yet formulated a plan for how to go about my grand escape. For now, I’ll have to find a hiding place and hole up while I figure out the best uses of my time and energy.

  With that in mind, I head south, where the city becomes more rural. I’m content to zip through alleys and hop fences en route, so as to avoid being spotted by any eyes that might like to have me in crosshairs—or an electric chair. Buried beneath mounds and mountains of emotions without names, there’s a portion of my mind that revels in this: the running and jumping, the escaping, the maximum allowable indulgence of the fight or flight response.

  The suburbs in this area don’t vary too greatly from those in the neighborhood of the graveyard where Firenze and Anthony met their grim endings; modest, yes, but full of life, signs of wear and use and growth. Nothing adds character to a neighborhood like growing pains. Old cars sit on lawns and gather dust, but the other things—basketball hoops, soccer balls, skateboards (complete with shoddy makeshift ramps), sidewalk chalk, etc.—look well used and well loved. These roads and, I imagine, their inhabitants, radiate an intimate warmth, like sleeping in on a rainy Sunday morning. I hurry into the yard of a small Victorian house and let the more complete darkness in the back of the house swallow me.