The Easy Way Out

37

In a dank highway truck stop bathroom, after pissing blood in a heavily graffitied stall, Blake rinsed his bruised face at the sink. He blotted his torn eyebrow with wet paper towels, flinching to a stop when the pain sharpened.

Beside him, a friendly trucker pumped pink liquid soap into his leathery hand. "Shoulda seen the other fella, right?" he said with an easy grin.

Blake nodded. He wet another wad of paper towels and scrubbed the dried bloodstains on his shirt and pants. "Hey. You got any aspirin or anything? They got my wallet, my jacket, my phone."

The man shook his head sympathetically. He retrieved a few packets of Advil from his jacket pocket. "Here you go."

"Thanks." A dislocated finger or two made tearing the foil packets a daunting task. Blake clenched the packs in his teeth, ripped them open, then swallowed the caplets.

"I expect you could use a cup of coffee," the trucker said.

Blake's burning lips and aching jaw muscles cut short his appreciative smile.

A short time later, with coffee in hand, he crossed the wide parking lot cluttered with passenger vehicles and 18-wheelers toward Alex's SUV. A crippling cough buckled his knees, bringing a discharge of blood. He wiped his mouth, opened the passenger door, and climbed up into the seat. With his hands on the steering wheel, he filled his aching lungs with air and slowly exhaled. When he closed his eyes, he found his mother there in the dark waiting for him.

She'd probably received his birthday card and had likely called to thank him and to ask him if what she'd been hearing about her son was true, hoping that he could explain how the story got so distorted and blown out of proportion. She desperately needed his assurances that everything was going to be fine, that whatever this was that he'd gotten himself into could be fixed. And he wanted to tell her that he'd get to that later. He'd sort it all out with her but right now he needed to focus. His life depended on it.

His eyes shot open and he gathered himself, blinking away her image, trading it for a blurry parking lot full of big trucks. A hard cough kicked at the bottom of his ribcage burning like hell but it cleared his head and his vision. He leaned across the seat and opened the glove box. Inside was the pair of vice grips that had been deployed during the interrogation. He tossed them onto the passenger seat and then almost smiled when he found a multi-tool.

He slid down from the passenger and hobbled to the rear of the vehicle. He grunted, opened the tailgate then attempted to unscrew the sill plate. The screws felt like they had been welded into the frame. His right hand went numb so he tried with his left. He pressed down so hard he could feel his vertebrae crack. Finally, the screws relented. He removed the plate then pulled away the plastic side panel to access the On-Star device. He unplugged the three connectors and then slammed the tailgate shut. With the tracking system disabled, he settled into the driver's seat. He dialed Rachel's number on Alex's phone. His call went to voicemail.

Blake texted: It's me - Chia Pet. He waited but received no response.

He washed down the acrid taste of despair with a sip of coffee along with his fading hopes. So much had happened so quickly, that he hadn't had time for thoughts, reflections, or preoccupations until now. He was struck by the realization that he had been living minute-to-minute, narrowly escaping with his life, relying almost exclusively on luck. Being alive was a temporary condition. He was smarter than his pursuers but they were better at this game. He had to put his thoughts in order but he needed to do that while he was an object in motion. Once he became an object at rest, he was a dead man. He started the Tahoe.

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The motel clerk was halfway out of his chair when Gizmo pushed the office door open, a cigarette wedged in the corner of his mouth. "You run this place?" He glanced out the window at the sign. "This is the Red Star motel, am I right?"