Elixir (24 page)

He chuckles. “No, no. I haven’t associated with the government since I got out of the military. Private work is where the money is.” He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “Does it really matter to you at this point anyway? Who’s paying me.”

Sean looks out the window at the silhouette of a large bird against the gray backdrop, no other movement around. He’s trapped and distancing farther and farther from society, nobody out here to help him, nobody even knowing where he is. He has no idea how to get out of this. All he can think to say, “There’s a girl six thousand miles away who’s sick. Very sick. She’s dead unless you let me out of this car.”

The Lincoln is hushed for about a half-minute. “All you people are the same. It’s funny to me. You’re principled in a way. Idealistic. I can’t say I don’t admire it on some level.”

“What people?”

“Ones that find themselves in the backseat of my car.” He meets Sean’s stare in the mirror. “You’re all very similar. You have been for the last fifteen years, since I’ve been...in this line of work. It’s always a plea to be let go. Followed by some story that’s supposed to appeal to my emotions.”

“You think I’m making this up?” he asks with anger, leaning forward with his elbow on his knee. “You think it’s a...Goddamn...story?”

“I wouldn’t say you all are necessarily making anything up. It’s more your general outlook, your nature. I don’t feel you can control it. You tend to not...run with the pack, if you will. Nobody ever hires me to track down the normal guy with the normal life. There’s always...a sense of deviation about you people.”

“And there’s no deviation about you? What are you, a professional kidnapper? Doesn’t sound too normal to me.”

“I’m more normal than you would believe. In fact, that’s my business. To restore normalcy. I’m just an extension of some of the most established, recognized institutions in the country. They contract me to...reinstate order for them. When someone like you tries to knock it out of sync.” He has a slight smirk on his face Sean notices in the glass, as if he’s mocking him. Sean retreats to the rear, folding his arms, pondering this man’s intentions.

They don’t talk for an hour and a half maybe, sedan advancing north the whole time. Dante yawns, tired from driving all day. He shakes his head and says, “I need food and coffee. I’m stopping. You’re coming with me.”

In a few miles he exits in Suddsfield, a small pass-through town, and approaches a Denny’s sign glowing above the hill line. He cruises down Suddsfield Avenue past a few gas stations, a shoddy motel, some droopy power lines, not much else. He pulls into the diner’s lot, a semitruck and a few older-model cars parked there.

He kills the engine, climbs out, and unlocks the backdoor, holding it open for his captive. Grimacing from his ankle wound, he ekes out, transferring as much weight to his right foot as he can.

Dante nods at the front of the restaurant, following Sean as he limps through the glass entrance. As the man walks to the greeter stand, Sean studies the people inside, a trucker drinking coffee at the counter, a tubby fellow reading a newspaper in a booth picking at a plate of bacon, a busboy in a dirty apron clearing dishes off a table in the center. He wonders if he can signal to someone for help without being obvious. Would be tough he assumes, nobody appearing to even acknowledge him.

He turns to a TV bolted on the wall playing live footage of Times Square, the same broadcast from the Merzberg living room earlier, everything on the street now covered in confetti, Ball dropped a little while back, that bubbly female announcer’s mouth moving but no noise coming out with the volume off.

He fixates on the woman’s big fuzzy green hat, something he remembers observing back in Pasadena, an odd, spiky design to it. He recollects all that’s happened between the first time he saw it in the den and now, seems like a decade though a few hours. His arms start to go numb from worry, things in the place spinning, the logo on the window, the brass buttons on the trucker’s overalls, the green fabric on the TV. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, trying to get a grip on himself.

“Happy New Year,” a freckle-faced lady in a Denny’s polo says stepping to the podium. “Anywhere you want.” She hands Dante two menus.

He shifts to Sean and gestures at a booth in the far corner. Sean hobbles toward it, taking a while to cover ground with his torn ankle. Passing the overweight guy eating bacon, he bumps into a chair trying to catch his attention, but it remains on the local paper.

Once at the booth, Sean slides over the brown vinyl seat, resting his left leg on the cushion, getting the pressure off. Dante settles in opposite, dropping menus in front of both of them. “I’m not hungry,” Sean says, pushing his away.

“You’re eating. And having caffeine. They want you alert when I get you there.”

“Get me where?” No answer, just the pulse of adult contemporary music from a speaker above. Arms folded, Sean looks out the window at the rundown houses scattered in the hills, doors boarded on a few of them, broken-down backhoe in the front lawn of one, his own flushed reflection in the glass. He debates whether he’d be able to lose this guy if he made it outside into the dark woods and hid. But that’s a major if. He has no clue how he’d do it. He takes a few more long breaths.

“You ever have the Lumberjack Slam?” Dante asks. “It’s delicious.” He snaps his fingers at him.

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“I’d recommend getting something in you.” He flashes that smirk again, subtle yet demeaning. “Trust me. You have a long night ahead of you.” Sean glares at him, then twists his focus back outside.

In a few minutes the woman in the Denny’s polo pops by, a notepad and pen in her hands, and asks with some pep, “Have we picked yet fellas?”

Dante collects both menus, bangs the bottoms on the table to square them, and passes them to her. “Two cups of coffee. Black. And two Lumberjack Slams. Grits. White toast.”

“Done and done.” With a smile on her freckled face she walks off.

“The Lumberjack Slam is exceptional,” he says to Sean, the lamp over them casting a strong light on the side of Dante’s head, specks of flesh visible under his tight crew cut. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

They sit in silence other than the adult contemporary music, Sean’s gaze turning to the heavyset man eating bacon. He envies this person, his freedom, ability to get up whenever he wants and go anywhere he wants, a luxury he always took for granted until now.

The waitress returns, setting a coffee mug in front of each of them with the Denny’s logo on it. She notices Sean’s mangled sunglasses, still hanging from his shirt, nods at them, and asks in all seriousness, “Is that like a fashion statement or something?”

Peeking at the shattered lenses, he says, “Nah. I just wasn’t careful I guess.”

She considers asking him what happened but can sense he’s not in a chatty mood. “Let me know if you all need anything else.” She scampers off with that same grin from before. Dante lifts his cup and has some, Sean not acknowledging his.

About ten minutes go by, no talking, just the soft music and the slurp of Dante’s sips. Sean watches the chubby man with the bacon pay his bill, get up, and leave. He pictures the tingle of the brisk rural air about to be on his skin.

Listening to Dante raise his mug up and down, Sean realizes he needs to do something to get out of here. Anything. If Natasha died he might as well be dead too. Nothing to lose. Time for a risk. He envisions what Bruce Willis from his favorite movie
Die Hard
would do right now. He’s seen the film so many times but never thought someone like him would need to reference it in a real-life situation. He can’t try to run away, not with this ankle, has to be something else. He thinks, that brain of his weighing all its options. Sure enough he has an idea. “I’m taking a piss,” he says.

Dante assesses the exit door, a few dozen feet away, and figures the kid would never be able to outrun him if he made a go at it, not with that ankle. He gets up and looks in the bathroom, checking if there are any windows. None. “Take a piss then,” he says in a deadpan voice, walking back over.

Sean slides out and limps across the rug, Dante following him with his stare the whole time just in case he makes a move. He doesn’t, pushing open the bathroom door and entering.

He limps past a black-tile counter, a urinal, and an “Employees Must Wash Their Hands” sign to the single stall. He steps in, closing it behind, fastening the silver lock. His heart rate accelerates, audacity of his idea a bit frightening, things like this foreign to him. He zeroes in on the toilet paper holder, two cylindrical brass bars about three inches long jutting from the wall. They’re perfect, just what he imagined.

Clasping the stall door for support, he lifts his right foot and stretches it to the toilet handle. He presses down with his toe, then kicks one of the brass bars, noise muffled by the louder flushing sound. It breaks off and dings on the tile floor for a few moments, then settles. Two sharp screws protrude from the back, bits of drywall in the grooves.

He collects the rod from the dusty surface, a dull light glinting off it. His little weapon. He opens an interior jacket pocket, stashes it inside, and zips it up. Dragging his foot, he leaves the bathroom and returns to the booth.

The smell of grease in the air, he shimmies into his seat, his Lumberjack Slam waiting for him on the table. He glances at a plate overflowing with two slices of bacon, two sausage links, two eggs, a piece of ham, grits, and toast. A pair of pancakes sits in a smaller dish to its right. He looks at Dante carving away on his own meal, eggs and ham already gone.

Sean grabs a syrup pitcher, drizzling some on his pancakes. He stabs a piece with his fork and raises it to his mouth. Then another. “I knew you’d enjoy it,” Dante says. He chews with a smug expression, taunting even.

“You’re right. It’s really good.” Sean has another bite, then picks up a bacon slice and bites off half. He raises his coffee mug to his lips, movement of his arm tightening his jacket, weapon pressing against his ribs, feel of it exciting him.

He finishes with a few more gulps and downs the rest of the bacon, getting as much food and caffeine in him as he can for his upcoming escape attempt. Holding the dry cup, he signals across to the waitress. She gives him a thumbs-up, then strolls over with a pot and refills him. “Thanks,” he says.

“No problem hon.” She moves the spout to Dante’s mug, topping him off too.

“Thank you ma’am.” He watches Sean, content he’s eating and drinking coffee as told.

“How you boys making out? Everything tasting good?”

“Phenomenal,” Dante says. “You can bring us the check whenever you’re ready.”

“I gotcha right here.” She wiggles her pad from a blue pouch on her waist, plucks off the first sheet, and rests it on the tabletop. “No rush guys.” She walks off, same smile.

About ten minutes later their plates are empty, used cups, utensils, and napkins sprawled between them. Dante slaps down a twenty and a five and says, “After you.” Sean slides out, a hot pain streaking up his leg muscles as his left foot meets the carpet. He limps toward the exit, presence of the brass bar against his chest delighting and terrifying him at the same time.

They step into the night, town of Suddsfield still and sleepy. Dante unlocks the Lincoln’s backdoor, holding it while the captive crawls in. He shuts it, then gets in front, sticking the key in the ignition, bringing the souped-up sedan to life, engine, lights, dashboard.

He reverses, turns out the parking lot, and cruises up Suddsfield Avenue toward the freeway, passing that dinky motel, those gas stations, those saggy power lines.

Sean leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, “The food helped, but if I’m supposed to stay awake for a while more I need a pick-me-up. You got some music or something? It’ll keep me up.”

Dante can in fact go for some too, still has a long ride ahead and needs to stay alert himself. He clicks a few buttons on the stereo, a CD loading, “Disc 5” blinking on the console screen. “Walk on Water” by Eddie Money courses through the speakers. “Are you a rock fan?” he asks above the guitar.

“I am. Yeah.”

“I prefer the kind of the eighties and two thousands. I never quite could get into the stuff of the seventies and nineties. And I don’t so much appreciate what’s coming out today. It’s as if I skip a decade.” He enjoys this, toying with Sean, knowing he has all the power. “Have any favorite eras?”

“I kind of like it all,” he says, pretending to be engaged, focusing on his next move. He needs to act before they get on the highway and start going seventy-plus. “Any rock is cool by me.”

“There must be some specific point in time you prefer?”

“I dig Eddie Money, I’ll tell you that. That era is cool.” As the tune pumps, Sean lifts his right hand to his chest. Viewing Dante’s eyes in the mirror, he slips his fingers under his jacket. He feels for the interior zipper, pinching the rubber grip. Once the booming chorus comes on he pulls down, the clack of unhinging metal teeth muffled by the stereo. The pocket is opened. He maneuvers his hand inside, clutching the brass bar. The coldness and realness of it on his fingers send a thrill through him.

They continue along Suddsfield Avenue for a bit, the freeway on-ramp only a few dozen feet away. Dante eases into the brake as the road bends toward the highway, the sedan slowing to about fifteen miles per hour. Now. Sean rips his hand from his jacket and whacks Dante’s face with the sharp rod, slashing his skin, knocking him unconscious against the window. Nobody steering, the Lincoln flails along the asphalt and bashes into a curb, then the black-and-white “101 North” sign, the abrupt stop propelling Sean into the back of the driver’s seat.

Sean’s heart pounds, his body crumpled in the valley between the rear and front, bristly rug poking the skin of his neck. He gets up, examining Dante’s expression, making sure he’s out cold. He is, eyelids closed, mouth open, a stream of blood flowing from a hole in his temple.

Clamping the wheel as support, Sean hauls himself to the front, his legs dragging behind him. He reaches over the listless man’s torso to the driver-side handle, opens the door, and slides out. Panting, he steps to the pavement. He can’t believe it worked.