White Night

Chapter 16

         Thirty-two hours. Thirty-two ball-sweating, caffeine-fueled hours to Mexico.

As Michael sat in his truck less than an hour after the encounter with the asshole detective from the night before, the options were clear to him. It had to be Mexico. Canada was only eight hours away, but it would be more difficult to disappear in Canada, and there was nowhere else to run from there. From Mexico he had Belize, Guatemala, even Costa Rica.

The blue line snaked across the map on his phone. It looked easy on the screen, just four highways. Take BQE out of New York, then I95 to Jacksonville, then I10 across to San Antonio and finally I35 to Nuevo Laredo. Not the obvious route, but that was the point. It would be too easy for the detective to flag his license at the Canadian border and then look for him on the fastest route to the southern border.

Detective Ross was probably already on his way to Michael's apartment. He shuddered at the thought of that pig knocking on Mrs. B's door, but he couldn't protect her, not in this condition. His landlady was no threat to anyone; she would helpfully show the police around his apartment, cooperating fully with the boys in blue. There would be no reason to harm her, he hoped.

Feverish heat spread across his body as pain still raged in his shoulder, but cold shivers travelled up his neck as he remembered his last arrest. It couldn't happen again, not for something he hadn't done.

Better get moving. The faster he got out of the city, the better. He would be harder to find with every state line he crossed.

His shoulder pulsed, almost its own living element now and no longer part of him, except for the pain signals pricking his brain. As he leaned forward to turn the ignition, his head felt like it was filled with helium and bright stars speckled his vision.

He couldn't drive two hours, never mind thirty-two hours. Shit! He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, his eyes starting to water. Collapsing back into the seat, he closed them tightly.

Don't you dare cry. New plan—immediate need: a safe place to regroup until he could run.

Home was out, and so was the Hayward now that he'd told the female cop he'd been there. New motel–somewhere he could park the truck behind the building and pay cash.

He deleted his Nuevo Laredo destination letter by letter, his body sinking further into the truck's bench seat. A thought jolted through his head. Had he just made a stupid mistake? Could the cops track his phone searches? Did they know his plan now? The shadowboxing in his brain was as exhausting as any brawl.

He held the power button until his phone screen finally went dark. He couldn't be traced now, but he couldn't find anything either. No updates from Angelo or Zeke, and no connection to motels, maps, or the world around him.

Get moving.

As the truck grumbled to life, he leaned forward to drop the gear-shift into drive but couldn't grip it properly. Cursing quietly, he grabbed it with his other hand.

The heat clinging to his skin turned cool as the image of his fight with the detective flashed through his mind.

Just drive, Michael. Look for a place to regroup. It would be safer to take the back streets, longer but safer...

It had to be close. Everything was getting harder; standing, moving, even thinking took double the effort. He was brutally tired, his mind pinballing from one possibility to another as the neighborhood of Bed-Stuy started to appear around the truck. Not the best area of Brooklyn but not the worst. He would find something here, cheap and anonymous.

Hansen had reentered his life after wrecking it a decade ago. Almost two years after the accident, a chance encounter on the street left Hansen with a broken nose and a fractured eye socket and Michael with a bruised hand and an arrest warrant. But why try to kill him now?

The truck rolled along, practically driving itself, and after what could've been five minutes or thirty, he spotted an older motel with a sign to a parking lot behind it. He stamped on the truck brakes—the drivers behind him leaned on their horns, but he wasn't missing this opportunity. He pulled up around the back of the property and parked. When he pushed the truck door open, it started to swing back on him, feeling like a hundred pounds as he shoved it open again and stood. At least his legs held his weight even if his head wasn't piloting them well. If he was lucky, the desk clerk would just think he was drunk.

The desk clerk was attentive, too attentive, but took his money and got his room key with only an, "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yeah, been working fifteen hours straight. Am done."

A sympathetic smile from the clerk and he was on his way to room 119.

The furnishings and decor reflected the cheap price, but the bed was close to the door and it was quiet, for New York anyway.

He rolled carefully onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Rest for a few hours, then head north. It had to be Canada now. Maybe it was better. If the cops had monitored his cell phone, then they would expect a run south. He would find a place to cross into Canada. It was the longest undefended border in the world, so there had to be an undefended place to cross.

Tomorrow he would trade his truck in for a cheap car and head to the border. Tomorrow night he would be gone, but not before one last stop