Thin Luck

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

California - Section 211

Armed Robbery

HE PUMPED THE gas to fill the tank. I watched the needle go from E to F like the second hand on a clock.

Would the man have killed me? Was I at the point of kill or be killed? What, exactly, was on the news?

When he went inside to pay I contemplated running, but there was nowhere to run, just endless miles of dead grass fields. Years ago I'd reported on grass fires in California, it all made a lot of sense now. All that dead grass was there to feed the fuel of the wildfires.

He tossed a plastic grocery bag onto the back seat.

We drove in silence, but my nagging thoughts kept me from letting it go. "Is that how you knew my name? You saw me on the news?"

He sniffed. "Yes."

"What was your plan? Were you going to turn me in?"

"Maybe," he shrugged.

"Fucking great."

"But then, you were interesting. I can't believe you told me everything, the truth." His eyes got wider. "I thought maybe if you lied about your name I'd take you to the next police station, I would turn you in. I thought maybe if you lied about the past few days I'd turn you in. But you didn't lie, except to yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

"Whatever it is driving you to see Nick, it isn't just to get your son back, or to get closure."

I couldn't process everything he was saying. This goody two-shoes with a face for confessions was going to turn me in, but he had made a game of analyzing me first. "Who are you?"

"I am Wilson Hatchet. Everyone calls me Woody. I've been honorably discharged from the United States Navy. I wanted to take off a year before going back to school to get my Masters in Education. I've already been accepted to a program for teaching math in Washington, but first I'm going to spend the winter skiing with a buddy of mine, in Bend, Oregon. I'm not any different from what you knew before."

"You punched a man in the face and left him for dead." My voice was raised.

He spoke more quietly, "You shot a man with his own gun, pushed him out of his car and left him for dead."

I shook my head and crossed my arms. "He didn't die."

He reached his hand over to touch my leg. Why did this simple act seem to simmer all of my anger at once? His eyes met with mine, "I can go back, if you want."

Miles ticked by. The smile on Woody's face was long gone, so were the show tunes he hummed. How could I trust that he wasn't going to drive straight to the police and turn me in? My only leverage was the guy on the pavement, but if he died it would be my word against Woody's, and my word wasn't worth two squares of toilet paper in prison. Never had been.

He pulled over an hour later into a motel with a vacancy sign. "Look, I'm tired. I need some sleep, and you have a few things to do and a decision to make."

My thoughts broke away from the cycle, "What kind of decision?"

He didn't answer my question, but jumped out of the car and into the motel's front office. When he came back he handed me the plastic key card. "We got the last one, #102," he pointed to the door.

Running away was my first thought. Perhaps that was the decision I had to make. I could hitch a ride, be back on the road. But I was so tired. If he wanted to kill me or turn me in, wouldn't he have done that already? I took the key.