Keep the Ghost

43. Getaway

The blinker clicks; I exit rolling past the burnt grass lining the ramp. I continue down the feeder for fifteen minutes, until I reach a small outcropping of gas stations and drive-through restaurants. A billboard with red lettering over a green camo backdrop points me toward something interesting; I turn right, following the posted directions.

Moments later, I arrive at an outdoor supply store and pull in. All the while, I check my rearview mirror for the police. None, yet, but I can't shake the feeling they are seconds away.

The supply store is a relic from the nineteen eighties, big brown cap on a squat rectangle of gray bricks. Trucks like mine litter the parking lot and two families with cardboard signs park near the road and sell puppies from a metal cage.

In front of the store rest a row of glittering red machines, tethered to the parking lot by steel cables. These are interesting.

I turn through the lot, driving to the far side of the building, where the employees park. I stop the car and push open the door.

I want to get rid of the license plates, because I figure it may buy a little time. I hop around to the front, hands scalding on the hood where I brace myself. With both hands on one edge of the plastic frame that holds the plate, I pull. The plastic is old and brittle; it snaps. Screws are torn from their place with tiny clouds of dust.

I repeat this in the rear of the truck, then throw the plates into the passenger side. My good leg aches, exhausted from pulling the weight of two.

Sun beams furious; I squint into it. Still got work to do.

I take the duffel bag, then hop to the side of the building, using it for balance. I maneuver to an abandoned shopping cart and lean on it, both elbows pressed into the grips, supporting myself as I slowly make my way to the front of the store.

Once there, an elderly man in a blue collared shirt greets me. I ask for a motorized cart; he looks surprised. I rap my knuckles across my cast. Through the sweatpants, the plastic rings hollow.

He returns with an electric red cart. I lower myself to the seat, black pleather already warm somehow, then pull my bad leg in with both hands. The duffel bag rests in my lap.

The greeter hovers nearby, and I realize I absolutely reek of sweat. My clothes are rank after two days on the run.

I smile at him.

I've got a couple million dollars—let's see what I can do with it. My thumb presses the accelerator, and I hum off down an aisle.

*

An hour later, I check out—cart overloaded, barely fitting between the aisles. Two aluminum trekking poles extend sideways, tungsten tips jutting from round shields. Under them, a folded up sleeping bag, and a hiking backpack full of camping supplies. Next to that, a gallon of water. A tag I missed on my new camouflage shirt pokes between myself and the seat.

I dip my hands in Morgan's duffel bag, peeling ten hundred dollar bills from the first stack I reach. I keep my hands low, out of sight, until I can bring the wad of money out and seal the bag once more. I'll pay her back.

The cashier guides my items across the scanner, gaze fixed blankly on his hands. I pay, and the reloaded cart hums along out of the store. The same elderly greeter offers to help load the bags into my truck; I refuse politely.

I ride the cart out of the building. It is excruciatingly slow, barely walking pace. My broken leg stretches out to the side, spreading me wide, like I'm lounging half-out of the ridiculous little buggy. The parking lot rolls under me, sunlight dazzling my eyes.

This very moment, probably a thousand police are organizing to capture me. They'll have helicopters, patrol cars, satellites, guns and radios. And here I am, humming along on a motorized shopping scooter. Must be the saddest fugitive there ever was.

A mad smile cracks my face.

I roll to the other end of the parking lot, next to an outdoor display of off-roaders. The little vehicles are distinctly insectoid, some mechanical arthropods in a half-dozen distinct species. They alternate red, black, and camouflage. Some sit high above their wheels with long angled headlights, all mantis and built for speed. Others crawl low on six wheels, with a deep, black metal tray gleaming along the rear.

A redheaded teenager in a blue uniform approaches—I have to remind myself we're the same age. "Hey. You looking to buy one of these?"

"Which one would get me furthest off road?"