Harmless (19 page)

“But I don’t
twitter…or tweet, whatever the verb is.”

“Doesn’t matter. 
Some dude in a coffee shop sees you walking down the street, he tells his
buddies online, and next thing you know, you’re sitting in front of a judge in
an orange jumpsuit.”

“So what do we do?”

“Not ‘we,’—you.  You
never heard from me, I never called, we never met today.”

I’d finally reached
my limit on the Blame Game.  I was pissed, and hopeless, and helpless.  Without
him, without something to guide me, it was all over.  I knew I wouldn’t last. 
I knew I couldn’t make it on my own.  And truly, I didn’t
want
to do it,
I didn’t
want
to say what I said, but what other choice did I have? 

“No, it’s ‘we.’  It’s
so
‘we.’  I’m over it—you don’t get to walk and leave me stranded, not
anymore, Thomas.  I hate to pull a Berger on you, but you try to walk away now,
we’ll be sharing a cell.”

He cocked an ear. 
“What’d you say?”

“Cellmates, you and
me.”

He stomped toward me,
got up in my face, nose to nose.  I held my ground, staring him down, smelling
the remnants of chewing gum on his breath.

“You’re gonna try to
pull that shit, huh?”

“Think about how much
fun we’ll have.  I’ll even give you the top bunk.”

“You’re a fucking
asshole.  I’ve got a family.”

“Then you better find
a way to get me out of this.”

“Unreal, bro. 
Un
real.”

I shrugged.  “Clock’s
ticking,
chief
.  What’s next?”

Thomas backed up,
glanced around the boathouse, tense, and I can only assume he was looking for
something to hit me with, something that would deliver more damage than his
fists.  If I’d been a masochist, I could’ve pointed out the oars hanging on the
wall. 

He said, “I don’t
believe this.”

“And I’m out of
options.”

“All right.  If
you’re gonna be like that—”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be
like that.”

“Shut up.  Listen,
okay?  Here’s what you do.  Let’s trade shirts.  Take my hat, too.  Leave your
car and walk.  Find a place to lay low for a couple of days.  That shaved head
will throw them off for a little while, so that’s good.  Um, what else—oh,
don’t go home, don’t even think about going home.”

I groaned, loudly.

“What?”

“The money.  It’s
still in my basement.”

“What money?”

“Strout.  He didn’t
take all of the two million; he left some behind.”

“How much?”

“A hundred.”

“A hundred bucks?”

“No, a hundred
thousand.”

“Jesus, why?”

I explained that I
really didn’t know why, that maybe it was out of the kindness of his cold,
shriveled, cruel heart, that maybe he felt like a monstrous jerk for doing what
he did.  I mentioned the note he’d left—which I’d shredded and burned,
thankfully—and that half was for me, half for Clarence. 

And damn it all to
hell, I hadn’t had a chance to give Clarence his share.  I didn’t even know if
he would’ve taken it, but it ate at me that I’d never have the opportunity. 

“So yeah, there’s a
hundred grand sitting in my basement.  I wanted to use my half to help find
whoever killed Kerry.”

“If they get a
warrant, it’s gone.  It’ll be evidence.  Actually, forget that.  No ifs.  I
don’t want you thinking you might be able to go back and get it.  Gone, done,
bye-bye, understood?  You stay as far away from your house as possible until we
get this sorted out.”

I agreed,
reluctantly, that it’d be a bad idea, regardless of how much I could’ve used
the money if I was going on the lam for a couple of days. 

That’s such an odd
phrase, right?  “On the lam?”  I know how it’s spelled, yet it conjures up
images of some old timey criminal—the ones who wore black and white striped
jumpsuits—trying to get away by riding a lamb.  I remember being confused by
the phrase as a kid, listening to my father describe a news story to my
mother.  “They haven’t caught him yet.  Guy’s on the lam.”  Even as a child I
had a high sense of awareness and it made no sense for someone to try to get
away on a lamb.  Wouldn’t that make him more obvious?  At nine years old, it
boggled my mind.

Thomas and I both
knew that time was imperative.  I needed to find a place to go, he needed to
get away from me to think, to not be implicated by association. 

We traded shirts—his
too big for my frame, mine too tight around his body. 

I can offer this: it
did sort of look good on him.  Gave his muscles some definition, squeezed his
biceps.  When I suggested that he might consider trying the style more often,
the look I got in response suggested that I keep my mouth shut.  I obliged.

Next, he told me to stick
to side streets and take alleys, but blend in, walk normally, wherever I was
going.  I’d draw more attention to myself by running in ordinary clothes.

“Act like you know
where you’re going.  You’re out for a walk, that’s all.”

It was his job to
snoop around with some contacts, maybe ask some of the people that Berger had
pissed off over the years if they knew what he had on Schott.  He’d be taking a
huge risk, but they’d be more likely to talk.

My job?  Find
somewhere to hide. 

I could only think of
one place.

CHAPTER 21

The old, abandoned
post office. 

You were assuming
Shayna’s house, weren’t you?  The thought crossed my mind.

My home away from
home, my Valhalla, my Mount Olympus where the gods used to park their red,
white, and blue chariots and receive the day’s mail from that inexhaustible
supply flowing from the Horn of Plenty. 

(I swear to you, if
someone could explain to me how the mail system works with such efficiency six
days a week—I hope they never do away with Saturday deliveries—excluding
government holidays, if somebody could explain to me how it all operates
without crashing down into a muddled heap of undelivered correspondence, I
would probably die a happy man.  How interconnected is it, really?  How
dependent is each part on the others?  Is it like a game of Jenga?  Remove one
important stabilizer and the whole thing falls apart?  I assume they have
contingencies in place.)

The new building, the
one over on Bellingham Street next to the parking garage, across the road from
a high school football stadium, is nicer, more modern, but it’ll never have the
same effect on me as the original.  The new building is dedicated to a former
mayor, some guy named Sherwood A. Pilkington, and I can only hope that he had a
tremendous love of the mail system to deserve such an honor. 

And don’t think I
didn’t notice that we share the same initials.  One of these days, perhaps we’ll
see the likes of a Steven A. Pendragon Memorial Post Office.

They closed the old
one down about six years ago—I’ve mentioned I don’t cry much, but I had to
fight back the tears on its last day.  Heartbreaking, no doubt about it.

One quick historical
note: my grandfather worked as walking mailman and he used to take me with him
some days when he came through our neighborhood back home.  We’d stroll from
house to house, dropping off letters and magazines and the promises that “You
May Have Already Won!” from the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes. 

I remember being
fascinated by it, even back then.  I understood the concept of addresses and
how each piece of mail belonged to a certain person because it had their name
on it, but Grandpa would never explain to me how it
really
got from one
place to another, sometimes coming from hundreds or thousands of miles away,
without getting lost somewhere in the process. 

He’d say, “It’s like
Santa Claus, Stevie.  How does he know where to go?  He only has to do it one
day a year; we do it almost every day.  Ain’t that something?  Don’t ever lose
your faith in magic and mystery.” 

I eventually learned
that Santa Claus wasn’t real—the post office, however, continues to exist in
this wonderful state of captivating perpetuity.

After Thomas left the
boathouse, after we’d agreed to meet there again, at midnight, in two days’
time, I walked calmly back to the trusty Cavalier and grabbed Kerry’s diary
from the passenger’s seat, because if I was going into hiding, I’d need reading
material. 

From the trunk, I
took a gallon of water and my bug out bag.

Too convenient?  Nope. 

Part of “
Be the
victor
” is that all-important set of initials, ABP.

Always Be Prepared.

Not that I ever
expected to go on the lam (
ha!
) for something like being wanted for
murder.  That was the furthest thing from my mind.  Never considered the
possibility.  Nope, the bug out bag was there in case of any extreme emergency,
for something like a North Korean nuclear attack or a giant solar flare disrupting
life on Earth, something feasible.

But also for
something infeasible, like an alien invasion, or God forbid, an actual zombie
outbreak.  I don’t believe in the actuality, but I most certainly accept the
possibility.  One can never be sure.

I always,
always
,
keep one bug out bag in my basement and one in my car, just in case the little
green men show up while I’m doing laundry or driving to the post office to send
my weekly letter to Brian Williams.

You can put in whatever
basic survival gear you think you’ll need, in the event of a disaster,
sometimes enough to survive a couple of days, sometimes a couple of weeks, but
essentially, it boils down to water, food, and protection from the elements.

In mine, I keep high-calorie
food rations, these little blocks of disgusting yuckiness that can deliver five
hundred calories per meal, in addition to a change of clothes, a flashlight,
spare batteries, a first-aid kit, a hand-crank emergency radio, and a
multi-tool.  The essentials.

I also had a brand
new wallet that contained five hundred dollars in fives, tens, and twenties, in
the event that homeostasis was restored and money mattered again.  And, in
addition to the money, the wallet held a fake I.D. that said my name was David
Berringer and I was from Ocala, Florida.

Because after it
happens, WTSHTF (
When the Shit Hits the Fan
) you never know.

Because just in case.

And man, would that
I.D. ever come in handy later.

There are more items,
plenty more, that it would be wise to have in a bug out bag, like a roll of
duct tape, bug repellent, and anti-diarrheal medication, but I like traveling
light, and I’ve always been certain that in an emergency, I’d be the
level-headed one at the top of the food chain, figuring I could get what I
wanted when needed.

So yes, I was
prepared to survive the disaster that my life had become.

I closed the trunk,
stuffed Kerry’s diary into the backpack, and then hefted it onto my shoulders,
grabbed the gallon jug of water, and took one last look around.

Reconnaissance, to
make sure no one was watching.

They weren’t.  Not a
single person in the park gave a second glance to the guy in an extra-large, ill-fitting
t-shirt, wearing a hat and a backpack, carrying water.

When people are stuck
inside their own heads, not thinking about
you
while they’re living one
of those seven billion individual realities, you might as well be invisible.

Sometimes, when
you’re lonely, that hurts.

Sometimes, when
you’re wanted for murder, you couldn’t ask for more.

I started walking,
looping around the lake, on the trail that I’d watched Kerry run so many times
before while I daydreamed that maybe one day we’d be jogging side by side,
laughing, chatting, testing our endurance together.

As I trudged along,
missing Kerry, I wanted to pick up the pace, to run, to live inside that
daydream and imagine that she was right there at my side, that we were running
for her redemption.

But I didn’t.  I
reminded myself to walk, just like Thomas had said.  Stay hidden in plain
sight.  Just a guy out for a stroll.  Nothing to see here.  Move along.

 Six miles.  I had
six miles to go before I reached the abandoned post office if my bearings were
correct, and
yes
, they always are. 

Another Pendragon
gift: superb, natural geolocational abilities.  I don’t keep a compass in my
bug out bags because I
am
a compass.  I inherited it from my father. 

About twenty years
ago, Fred Pendragon supposedly got lost on a wilderness hike—the media, the
local authorities, everyone was looking for him—and he’d worried my mother
sick.  You can imagine his shock when he returned to all the hubbub.  He wasn’t
lost—merely absentminded.  One of our lesser traits.  He’d simply forgotten to
tell my mother about his plans.  A group of friends, who were sworn to secrecy,
had blindfolded him and gotten him lost intentionally, deep in the woods, just
so he could test his skills at hiking home unaided.

Six simple miles
before I reached the—well, let’s run with it—before I reached the Steven A. Pendragon
Post Office.  Not “Memorial.”  Not yet, anyway.

I made it four miles
before things got
really
scary.

In more ways than
one.

***

Normally I run at
about a six-minute mile as a cruising speed, so four miles would take me around
twenty-four minutes on a workout day.  I consider that fairly respectable.  On
the opposite end of that, when you’re trying to stay inconspicuous, when you’re
trying to pretend that you’re part of the crowd, each mile feels like it takes
hours.  I didn’t stop and snoop in any of the nearby shop windows in case there
were any security cameras guarding the front entrances, but I didn’t hurry
either.

I figured I wouldn’t
be able to break into the old post office until after dark anyway, so I had a
couple of hours to kill.

But when a police
cruiser drifted by around mile two, and actually
slowed down
, I decided
that maybe I was hiding out in the open
too well
.  There’s a chance that
it could’ve been my imagination—heightened sense of awareness due to impending
doom and all that—but I didn’t think so.  Maybe I looked shady, maybe I looked
out of place wearing a backpack and carrying a gallon of water in the middle of
town—I can’t say for sure—but what I do know is that I caught the officer
looking at me from the corner of my eye.

He moved on,
thankfully, and I made a right down the next alley once he was out of sight. 
If Schott and Berger already had an APB out on me, then most likely the
officers were advised to look for a five-eleven, Caucasian male (with an
excellent tan) with brown hair and blue eyes.  And unless they’d spoken to Mrs.
Epstein and she’d thought to mention my shaved head, I didn’t completely fit
the description, at least not until they learned enough to modify it.

Regardless, the
officer’s gaze was too close for comfort.

As I walked down the
alleyway, my heartbeat thumped in my chest like the
wop-wop-wop
of a
helicopter’s blades, and at roughly the same speed, too.  I tripped over a bag
of garbage, and when I stood up straight, I nearly blacked out.

The third mile was
uneventful.  I stuck to alleys and unpopulated streets, walking behind
restaurants and smelling the simultaneously pleasant aromas of their kitchen
exhaust and the rotting stench of whatever they’d thrown away in the days
before.  I scared a couple of stray cats scavenging for scraps and was nearly
tempted to grab a full loaf of bread tossed out by the fine folks at Emerson’s
Bakery. 

Good man, that
Emerson.  He’s probably the only person I’ve ever met that likes to talk more
than I do.  Who knows how he ever gets anything done around his store, but he
can bake one hell of a loaf of rye bread.  Best I’ve ever tasted.

In fact, it was a
loaf of rye bread that sat visible over the dumpster’s rim.  Still packaged,
still clean, and probably just one of the day-old castaways that he hadn’t
managed to sell for fifty percent off.  I got as far as wrapping my hand around
the delicious loaf before I changed my mind and kept walking.

Loafless.

Pendragons do not beg
for scraps.  Pendragons do not eat from the trash, no matter how sticky the
situation.  If a monumental disaster ever came to fruition, I wouldn’t put it
past our fellow survivors to bring us food as a good faith gesture.

By the time I reached
mile four, I’d managed to burn an hour and a half.  Total dark was still too
far off and I was starving, so I sat down on a knee-high rock wall that shored
up a small, open expanse that a lot of locals used as a dog park due to the
chain link fence that surrounded it.  Inside, I counted sixteen slobbering
pooches and their matching owners. 

Matching owners that
could’ve been witnesses to my whereabouts, if they were observant.  Their
attention was elsewhere though, and I was hungry enough to decide that a
five-minute break was worth the exposure.

I looked over to the
mishmash of canines.  Black labs, a Jack Russell, a couple of Golden
Retrievers, and a number of other mixed breed mutts chased each other, chased
tennis balls, and lifted their legs to one of the many trees.  They all looked
so…happy.

I’ll never change my
mind about the superiority of cats over dogs, but if you could’ve seen their
doggie smiles—it was almost enough to
get
what a dog owner sees in those
drooling piles of fur.  I’m not a convert, but I’m open minded enough to see
their point.

And, like Kerry’s
fish, my next thought immediately went to my best friend back home, whom I’d
left alone.

If anything happened
to me, who’d feed Sparkle?

Such a depressing
thought.  I made a mental note to ask Thomas if he’d take him, should anything
go wrong.  I’m sure they would’ve bonded.  Sparkle affects people that way.  To
wit, Kerry.

I pulled one of the
caloric bricks out of my bag.  Each five hundred calorie block is about an inch
square and I took my time eating it, small nibble by small nibble, much in the
same way a child will slowly savor a piece of chocolate, delaying the
gratification.  But it definitely wasn’t gratifying.  The thing tasted like a
corkboard beverage coaster, only worse.

A gust of wind rushed
past, bringing with it the scent of far off rain and filling my eyes with
street dust.  While I rubbed at them, trying to get the dirt out, I heard this
deep, authoritative voice say, “Sir, can I ask you to stand up for me, please?”