The Eighth Day

Chapter 31

Shawn Jaffe pushed the accelerator to the floorboard. The compact raced away from Moore City and careened headlong down the fractured road. Beneath his grip, the steering wheel shuddered. The horizon fled before him, and he chased after it.

He'd changed clothes, tossed his wedding ring and everything else he had on him from Amarillo, and they'd still found him. That meant that however they'd tracked him, it was still on him, in him, implanted beneath his skin or, God forbid, somewhere cerebral.

Ohio State was no longer an option. They'd be waiting for him. He had to keep moving.

No doubt about it, they weren't cops or Feds. Johnny Law didn't hole up in your old house and try to kill you when you refused to read the newspaper. And, God, the compulsion had been profound. He'd been programmed, conditioned, and they knew that irresistible impulse would grip him, and they'd tried to use it against him.

Even his memories of Moore City were flawed. The town from his mind's eye was a cheap knockoff of the real deal. He might've dismissed these inconsistencies as misremembered details if not for the gaping hole in his historical narrative—his home was the wrong house.

He didn't ease off the accelerator until the interstate. I-75 South led to Dayton, where he merged onto I-70 East and passed through Columbus without stopping. Around noon, the interstate cut through the northern tip of West Virginia, and twenty minutes later, he entered Pennsylvania.

Shawn's stomach gave a low growl. The last time he ate a real meal, Victoria had smiled at him over their plates of pancakes and sausages. Twenty-four hours and a thousand miles later, she'd stared at him from the backseat of the car that tried to run him down.

He followed signs to a diner at the next exit. A handful of vehicles mottled the parking lot. He parked facing the building's glass front. Through the windows, truckers and other transients hunched over heaping plates of food and steaming cups of coffee. They sat in booths or on stools alongside a counter that separated the dining area from the kitchen.

Shawn took a deep breath, got out of the car, and pushed his way through the doors into the diner. The din of cutlery clattering on plates filled the place, and the aroma of grease and cholesterol hung heavy in the air. A careworn hostess in a red shirt flashed him a tired smile from behind a stand of menus.

"How many?" she asked.

"Just me."

"This way, please."

She wove her way through the diner with a grace born of repetition to an empty booth at the back of the room. "Your waitress will be right with you," she said.

Shawn slid into the vinyl seat, and she shuffled back to her station to await the next customer.

A faux-wood laminate covered the tabletop, cracked and bubbling and peeling at the edges. Beneath its cloudy film, a news app scrolled through the latest headlines, and he fought an urge to check the classifieds. Another app displayed the diner's menu, and he dragged it toward him and flipped through the selection of meals.

"Coffee?"

A boney waitress in a white shirt and blue apron hovered over him. A gaudy layer of mascara and rouge accented the angular features of her narrow face. Her hair hung in a limp frizz of tattered locks. A white ceramic carafe dangled from her hand, and a wisp of steam rose from its spout.

"Please," Shawn said.

She flipped his mug over and poured. "Any questions about the menu?"

He shook his head. "I'm still looking."

The waitress slid the coffee carafe onto the table. "Lemme know if you need anything," she said and spun on her heels to continue her rounds. Outside, a large semi-trailer truck's air brakes wheezed as it rolled into a charging station on the other side of the street.

Shawn settled on a steak omelet with a side of pancakes. He tapped to confirm his order, and time-until-ready flickered at ten minutes. He shoved the menu app aside, reached for his coffee, and fumbled it as he glanced at the news app and saw the headlines scrolling across the tabletop. The mug teetered, and coffee sloshed over the rim. He steadied it with a shaky hand. His breath caught in his throat. Beneath "President Hoyt Calls for Unconditional Brazilian Disarmament," the text "Fatal Shooting in Weatherford Caught on Video" hit him like a slap to the face.

He reached for it. His finger hesitated, poised over the link. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and his pulse hammered in his ears. He tapped the link, and a video opened on the tabletop screen.

It showed a high-angle shot inside the charging station with him at the counter, talking to the clerk. His face was turned away from the camera, thank God. The two men entered the store, and the one in the lead drew his pistol. Events played out with the inevitability of prophecy, and the image froze as he caught the gun. No longer was he turned from the camera, and the screen zoomed in on his face with glorious high-definition detail. Teeth gritted in rage, eyes wild—he looked mad. Not angry mad, but the kind of mad that would eat a man's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

Around him, the diner's patrons remained intent on their meals and coffees as conversations droned on. Soon, though, someone's gaze would wander and fall on him with eyes wide and mouth agape. "It's him!" Heads would turn. "The guy from the video!"

Shawn slid out of the booth. His thigh bumped the underside of the table, and his coffee teetered at a precipitous angle but remained upright.

"You okay, hon?"

His waitress approached, her eyes creased with concern. Conversations faltered. Now heads did turn.

He slid the wad of cash out of his pocket, unfurled a five, and dropped it on the table. "I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go."

"But what about your order?" she called after him.

He tucked his head and averted his gaze as he hurried toward the exit and out the door. She and the other patrons gawked at him through the diner's glass front. He threw himself into the compact and tore away, skidding onto the road leading back to the interstate.