28
March 24, 2008
“What’s your name kid?”
“F-f-f-Francis”
“Listen Francis, I need to ask you for a favor.”
“Uh…okay.”
“Do you have access to the security feed? I’d rather not be on the security feed.”
“I…I think I can arrange that. It’s all recorded on hard drive, and it crashes a lot. I can make it look like one.”
“Great. Here’s money for the gas and the water. What magazine were you reading?”
“Gamepro.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and handed him a ten dollar bill. “Here, that should get you a new one.”
“Thanks…” Francis was staring again.
“Listen Francis, I’m flattered. Really. But I have some work to do, and I’m not in town long. If you can crash that video feed, I’ll make sure to come back next time I’m in town, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.” Mokoto walked towards the door. “Excuse me, but, is…is he dead?” She glanced back at the floor. The ski mask was cut in spots and shards of glass from the counter were still in it. His arm was twisted at a very wrong angle, and now rested under his back. She stared at him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall slowly.
“He’s alive, but he passed out from pain. I’d call for an ambulance, after you take care of the security feed.” She winked and walked out the door.
***
The old blanket gave up dust to the sudden intake of air from underneath it. The dust travelled quickly through the air, entering a dark passageway. The dust had no malice, no intent, and no designs on anything or anyone. The dust simply began triggering histamines. The histamines also had no agenda and no great plan, but the dust gave them a reason to spring to action. Within seconds, nerve cells fired, brain cells sent signals, and their ultimate goal was soon achieved.
“AHCHOO!”
Old Man B’s eyes shot open wide. He quickly pulled off 41st Street onto Prairie Avenue. He brought the car to a swift stop, then reached for his glove-box. The old .38 special he kept in there tumbled to the floor. He heard the blanket in the back move again.
“Old Man B, I can explain.” came a slightly familiar voice from the back.
“Bob?” He turned around, and he saw Bob and Phil, lying in the back of his Pacer. “What kinda crazy stunt is this? How the hell did you get in my car?”
Phil sniffled loudly. “You never lock the doors on this thing. You never clean it either.”
“Okay, fine. Why on God’s green earth are you hiding in my car? How long have you two been back there?”
“Just since before you left the bookstore.” Bob said, looking out the back of the car. “Listen, we needed to get around without being seen. The police want to question us about something, and we’re not sure what. I mean, we have ideas, but…it’s…a long story.”
Old Man B picked up the pistol. “Well, I know a thing or two about running from the law, but you two had better give me a good reason for that, and for scaring the crap outta me by hidin’ in my Pacer. Now, start talkin’.”
***
The headlights hit the “EXIT” sign. The Crown Victoria slowly merged to the right, twisting in the night to jump from one lonely stretch of asphalt and billboards to another that wasn’t so lonely, at least in this part of the great plains. Soon the car was southbound on Interstate 29. Soon Gerrard, soon I’ll finally close this case. The car roared onward into Sioux Falls city limits, and the driver let himself smile for the first time since the drive from the FBI’s field office in Minneapolis.
