<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 27 Time to Go Anton felt safe in Timmins' protective zone, but he was sure that Reinhold's spies were out there looking for him. They must already be in his hometown, interviewing shopkeepers and housewives, ready to sound the alarm if he showed himself. Timmins was expecting him too, of course. He stepped onto his porch just as Anton came up the driveway. He stood there barefoot, wearing overalls and a John Deere cap, like in the painting he'd shown Anton years before at the mental hospital. They went inside, and Anton saw the same painting on the wall over the mantel. There was a telescoping effect, and everything snapped into place for him. He was inside the vision now, as if he'd never left home. Yet his triumphs and mistakes in the world had been real. He was glad that Timmins had never joined him in Portland. Timmins belonged to a different order of things entirely. He was invisible to the Citadel, and he was a loner who never got visitors from town. Anton knew he would be safe here for a time. For his part, Timmins had never seen Anton so haggard and fidgety. The most sensitive receptors burn out first, was his thought. Anton looked like he'd reached his limit. Now he was self-destructing, and he'd come to say goodbye. Timmins gave him a mental tour of the house, showing him the guest room, bathroom, and kitchen on a screen inside his mind. He showed him the boxes from Steve's aunt, which were stored in the hall closet. Anton replied with images of his own: setting fire to his studio, escaping through the basement tunnels, sleeping under the sky in Nevada. Timmins excused himself to go paint. Anton had been on the road for days, but he was too restless to sleep. He went to the closet and took out his boxes. They were sealed with tape, apparently untouched since Steve had packed them. Inside was everything he treasured most: his writing, his music, his snapshots and letters, even his fetish necklace and favorite shirt. Timmins' painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe was there, removed from its frame and rolled up. He could imagine Steve's desperation as he packed everything away. Their misadventure in Idaho flashed before him, and he felt a catch in his throat. They'd been playing at being outlaws, when they should have been enjoying their chance at happiness. The master tapes to The Last Assassin were there, in their high-impact briefcase. Taking the case in his hands, he opened it with practiced moves. He took out the handgun he kept there, and closed and rearmed the case. He would have to show Timmins how to do that. At the bottom of one of the boxes he found Steve's things: a diary, college notes, essential documents, photos of himself with Anton. He felt a sharp pang as he fingered these relics. At the same time, he'd found the answer to his dilemma. He slipped Steve's birth certificate from its folder and put the boxes back in the closet. He knew he would have to be back on the road within days, but for now he did nothing. He felt paralyzed, as if waiting for something to happen. After years of frenzied motion, he was unable to make the first move. Becky came to visit. She was working at a pharmacy in town before starting grad school. She was surprised to find Anton there. Perhaps Timmins had mentioned that Anton was coming, but she had a way of tuning out whenever he talked about Anton. She gave Anton a hug, but her displeasure was obvious. For the past few years, she'd made it her business to protect Timmins. She felt he was too dependent on Anton, and she'd done her best to wean him away. She saw Anton as a bully with a history of terrorizing Timmins, and now he was back. When she sat on the couch next to Timmins to brush out his hair, Anton could tell it was a ritual she performed each time she came to the house. She lingered over her work, humming to herself, as Timmins stared round-eyed into space. Anton wandered outside for a while, and when he came back, he found them holding hands. As evening fell and Becky busied herself in the kitchen, it became obvious that she would spend the night. His first reaction was one of shock, but then he saw it made sense. If any woman could be good for Timmins, it was Becky. Apparently his failure to impress her had achieved something after all. It had pointed her to Timmins. He was happy for them both, but he had to wonder. Timid as they were, how had either of them managed to make the first move? "I did it for you," Timmins explained later. "I was thinking, 'This is what Anton would have done,' but you weren't here." Anton had to laugh. "Can you imagine how things would have been different if we'd each lived our own lives? Ever since I went away, I've been telling myself, 'I'm doing this for Timmins,' but it wasn't true." Timmins frowned. "Of course it was true." "No, it wasn't. I forgot what I was doing, and I lost my way. When we were little, we used to dream of a network of others like ourselves. I wanted to find it, and join it, so we could both be a part of it. Instead, I ended up helping the enemy!" "What choice did you have? There's nothing out there but illusions, so you chased illusions. If you were looking for something real, you were bound to fail. At least you discovered the Citadel, which is important." Anton looked unhappy. "That's not what I wanted." Timmins shrugged. "You could have stayed here like I did, but you were never one to sit still." The next morning, Anton hovered over Becky as she prepared to leave. He'd decided that since she was there, she could be of use. After washing the dishes and wiping her hands on a towel, she checked the refrigerator to make sure there was enough food. Turning with satisfaction, she collected her backpack from where it hung on a chair. "I won't be sticking around," Anton told her, "you'll be happy to know." She shrugged. "Stay as long as you like. It's your choice." "No, it isn't. I'm on the run." She looked at him questioningly. "Not from the police, exactly," he said. "Something worse." She screwed up her face. "You mean, like drug gangs?" "Worse than that, even. More like the CIA and the Mob wrapped into one." She laughed, and quickly put her hand to her mouth. "That's quite a discovery!" His eyes flashed in irritation. "I know what I'm talking about! I was part of it. I was there." "Part of what, exactly? An international spy ring? A conspiracy of killers?" The disbelief was plain in her voice. "I know it sounds crazy. I'm just a stupid rock star, right? Why would I be mixed up with stuff like that? Well, it happened. They recruited me, and used me, and then I tried to warn people. Ordinary people like you, with an innocent view of the world. Have you heard of The Last Assassin?" She shook her head. "Should I have?" "No, and that's my point. It's an album of mine that no one's heard of. I released it, and promoted it, but it vanished from sight. It never showed up in stores. No media ever mentioned it. Can you imagine something like that happening, in a free country like ours?" She looked uncomfortable. "I don't know, Anton. That's outside my experience." "It proves that my enemies are a lot stronger than I thought. I lost the battle, and now they're fighting back. They fabricated charges against me, and now I'm on the run. I barely made it out of Portland before they sprung the trap. Was there anything on the news about my disappearance?" he thought to ask. "You know I'm too busy to watch the news," she said complacently. "And you know how out of touch we all are, here in Iowa." "Well, this is one of the places I expect them to look for me. It's my hometown, after all. And once they've got me in their sights, they'll attack. I don't want you or Timmins anywhere near me when that happens. I've got to get as far away from here as I can. To Mexico, or even further." He was thinking of Brazil, of Indonesia. "So why did you come back here, if it puts us at risk?" She bit her lip, aware of how ungenerous that sounded. "I don't know. To regroup, or— Look, will you help me?" She frowned. "Sure, if I can." "I need a car, but it's too dangerous for me to go out there and look for one." "You want me to find you a car? I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable—" She knew how picky he could be. "It's simple. I need something ordinary, the more ordinary the better. Not too new, not too old. Not too big, not too small. What I care about is the engine. So look around, pick up the paper and make some calls." He handed her a wad of cash. "This is all I have with me. Take what you need. When you find a car like that, buy it and put this name on the title." He showed her Steve's birth certificate, which was next to him on the table. "Steve Banning, that's my new name. I'll take it into town to get it registered. I have to do that part myself, but if you help me, it'll cut down the danger." She felt a bit numb. "Are you going to see your family before you leave?" His eyes widened. "Don't tell them, Becky! Swear to me you won't. It's for their own protection. They'll tell their friends and neighbors, and that'll draw the locusts." He drew a circle in the air, as if his pursuers were hovering around them. "My enemies won't stop at anything to get me. They'll destroy everything in their path." She hated the melodrama that swirled around Anton. She didn't believe he'd taken on a powerful opponent and lost. He'd failed because he'd overstepped his talents, it was as simple as that. One thing was clear, though. Life had been more peaceful before his return. She'd had Timmins to herself, and that had been good for Timmins. He could feel her distrust. "Just help me, Becky. I don't care if you believe me. I need to get out of here, for the good of us all." She hesitated, and slipped the cash into her backpack. "I'll see what I can do." She stepped to the screen door, and went out to her car. Timmins knew what Anton was planning, and he knew that Anton would need cash. A new life in Mexico was expensive, but due to the haste in which Anton had left Portland, he didn't have much money with him. His dream was to buy a house in the mountains, in a remote spot that could be reached only by footpaths. He would live as a shepherd or a beekeeper, and the locals would protect him from any intrusion. Timmins searched Anton's future for this, but he drew a blank. He feared that any help he gave Anton would prove futile, but he had to try. Anton had bought him his house, and it was time for him to return the favor. Becky returned a few days later with a choice of cars for Anton. He picked one, and she agreed to buy it the next day. As she got ready to leave in the morning, Timmins asked her for a ride into town. She was shocked, because ever since his family tragedy, he'd been deathly afraid of cars. "Hurtling metal boxes," he called them. The trip from the mental hospital had been a major ordeal, requiring blankets and sedation. He hadn't been in a car since. He was calm as he climbed into the seat beside her. "It's never too late to break old habits," he said with a grin. It was time to start managing things for himself, because Anton wouldn't be around any longer to help. For Becky it was a sign of progress, though in a way she preferred a helpless Timmins. She let him off in front of the brick-and-glass offices of his financial adviser, Mr. Brock. Mr. Brock was a beefy man, a former athlete who played golf. They'd talked a few times on the telephone, but this was the first time they'd met in person. Timmins had always thought of Mr. Brock as his grandmother's flunky, the man who said no. Now he was twenty-one and in control of his trust fund, so Mr. Brock would have to do what he said. "Is there any money left in my account?" he began. "Or did you guys spend it all?" Mr. Brock laughed easily. "It's all there, Timmins. About three hundred thousand dollars' worth. Your grandmother only took what she needed to pay your expenses. Clothes, schooling, art supplies, and so forth. That was the agreement." "And the mental hospital? Did I pay for that, too?" Mr. Brock fidgeted. "That was seen as being in your best interest at the time." "So the money's mine now, to do with as I want?" "Of course it's yours, it always has been! And yes, you're free to use it however you like. Only, if you'd like us to continue to watch it for you, and invest it prudently as we have been—" "No, thanks. I'll take it now." Mr. Brock was taken aback. "Well, I don't have the money here in my desk! It's in various mutual funds and stocks, some of which it is not a good time to sell, and bonds with fixed maturity dates—" "You can give me the papers, I'll sort it out. I have a friend who needs it." "Timmins, this is not a good idea." "Are you refusing, Mr. Brock? Do you think I can't manage my own finances?" He rose from his chair. Mr. Brock made a calming motion, and Timmins sat back down. "Most people with sizeable assets nowadays seek professional help. The complexity of modern markets—" "Let's just simplify things, then. By the end of this week, I want everything converted to cash unless it can't be done. Put the money in an ordinary bank account under my name. Whatever you can't sell, I want a list explaining what it is, and why it's tied up. Is that clear, Mr. Brock? I think it's time—" "Certainly, Timmins." "I think it's time I took control." "Of course." He rose and shook Mr. Brock's hand. "If you need my signature on anything, you know where to find me." He walked across the street to a donut shop, and bought a jelly roll and coffee. He stepped onto the sidewalk where Becky would see him when she drove up. "Well, that's taken care of," she said brightly as he got in. For a little extra cash, she'd arranged for Anton's car to be delivered to Timmins' house the next morning. He shuddered, because he was dreading the ride home. His courage from earlier had worn off. "I had an incident," he announced. "I asserted myself." He told her the story. He didn't tell her the money was for Anton, because he knew she wouldn't approve. Back at the house, they found Anton on the sofa reading a book. Becky stayed with him in the parlor, while Timmins went off to paint. She told him about the encounter with Mr. Brock. Anton laughed. "Timmins threw a temper tantrum? That's my job." "I told him that. I said, 'You always let Anton handle that end of things.' And he said, 'Anton wasn't here, so I had to do it.'" Anton grew pensive. "You know, he's right. Anton isn't here any more. And that's how it's gonna be from now on." She eyed him curiously. "You're going on with your lives, the two of you, and I'm...." He sliced the air angrily. "Is it convenient for you, seeing me disappear?" "Stop it! That isn't fair." "Couldn't you wait to hook up with him until I'm already dead? Do I have to see with my own eyes what I'm missing? It's Anton who has to go away, Anton who has to cross over, so his friends can live in peace. Would you do the same for me?" She shook her head. "What are you talking about?" They stared at each other a long time, because each thought the other was bluffing. "Figure it out," he spat finally. "I'm gonna die. My enemies will catch up with me soon enough, and they've got no reason to be nice. I've caused them a lot of trouble, and they're pissed. Meanwhile, you'll go on living in this world without me, thanks to my mistakes. Anton loses. Anton is not here. You should get used to it, 'cause it's gonna happen real soon." When his car showed up the next day, he took it into town to the DMV, along with the title and Steve's birth certificate. As he talked with the nice lady at the counter, he used the innocent charm that had always worked so well for him in the past. He explained that he'd moved from Texas to Iowa to stay with his cousin, Becky Simms. He'd never had a license before, which was plausible because Steve was only nineteen. She made him take the driving test and the written test, and sit for a photo. By the end of the day, he had his plates and a temporary license. His real license would arrive in the mail within a few days. That was almost too easy, he thought as he left. What if he were a terrorist, or a fugitive from the law? "But I am," he reminded himself, shaking his head. People in the Heartland were too trusting. They didn't have a clue about the dangerous people lurking around. That night, he was eager to celebrate by taking his car for a ride. When Timmins offered to join him, he was as surprised as Becky had been that Timmins had overcome his fears. Timmins' real mission was to protect him, as he found out soon enough. It was already dark as they followed a country road along the river. Trees rustled overhead as they drove through a patch of fog and rain. Thirty miles out, a cruiser's lights came on behind them. "Pull the car over," Timmins said. "Don't say a word. I'll take care of it." Anton slowed to a stop, and Timmins stuck his head out the window. An officer approached, boots crunching on wet gravel. He came to the passenger's side for some reason, rather than to the driver's side where Anton was. "Evening, officer," Timmins said. "Do you have any passengers with you tonight?" the officer asked. "No, sir." The man shone his flashlight in Timmins' face. "How old are you, son?" "Twenty-one." "You from around here?" "Just down the road." The officer looked doubtful. "Take a look at my plates." The man stepped back to look at the plates. He shone his light around inside the car without finding anything, and returned it to Timmins' face. "I'm giving you a warning," he said. "Your tail light's out, that's why I stopped you. If I catch you out here again in this condition, you'll get a ticket." Once the officer was gone, Timmins turned to Anton and they burst out laughing. "Damn, you're good," Anton said. "If you'd handed him a cow pie and said it was a donut, he would've eaten it with a smile on his face." "I like donuts," Timmins said. "I ate one yesterday." The incident was proof of Timmins' protective powers, but Anton was worried that they were wearing thin. So far he'd been lucky, but the danger was growing. Even Timmins couldn't hold off his pursuers forever. If Reinhold's thugs ever came looking for him at the farmhouse, Timmins' life would be in danger along with his own. The next time Becky stopped by, she told him that a woman had been asking for him at the drug store where she worked. "She must be a friend of yours," she said doubtfully. "You told me not to say anything, so I didn't. I said you must still be in Portland." "You mean you lied for me?" He could hardly believe it. "I won't make a habit of it," she said primly. "But she was a bit strange." "What did she look like?" "Tall, stylish, black hair—" He shuddered. "A pale face, like a mask almost? Asian, perhaps?" "I don't have a clear image." She seemed troubled by this. "Do you know her?" "If it is who I think it is, she's not a friend." It bothered him that Sabrina had gotten so close. Was she working for Reinhold, or pursuing her own agenda? Did it make a difference? Sensing his nervousness, Becky tried to soothe him. "She didn't learn anything from me. You're safe here with us." Still, the episode had been creepy. She could no longer dismiss Anton's fears out of hand. It occurred to him that maybe Sabrina wanted to help. Perhaps she was trying to warn him, like she had in his dream, or even offer him a way out. Immediately he crushed this hope. Thanks to Sebastian, he knew Sabrina's true nature. She was a soul parasite who fed on the desires of others. Any help she offered him would be a trap. Another possibility was that Reinhold's referees were competing to see who could get to him first. In that case, things were worse than he'd thought. With the Citadel's top agents working against him, would he be able to stay hidden until his driver's license arrived? Or should he leave now, consequences be damned? Such paranoia would be his normal state from now on. Given the scope and power of the Reinhold organization, he would never be safe. Everywhere he went, there would be a secret friend ready to betray him. He had to become a completely new person, with none of his old habits, nothing recognizable as his old self. Never again could he be Anton Dupree. He knew that Timmins wouldn't like being left on his own again. Timmins wasn't looking forward to a solitary old age, any more than Anton had looked forward to a life of crash and burn. Still, it was a joint effort. He'd penetrated the Citadel so Timmins could paint its secrets. Now his job was over, and Timmins' had begun. Timmins was aware of these thoughts, and they made him uneasy. He tried to plant other possibilities in Anton's mind. If they stayed together, they could repel Reinhold's attack. Over time, they would slow the Citadel's agenda. A new spirit would be born in humanity that would make people more independent, less easily led. Anton didn't want to wait around to find out. Impatient as always, his thoughts raced to the challenges ahead. He still hoped to make it to Mexico, but he began steeling himself for a grimmer fate. Years ago, he'd had a vision of death in the Utah desert. At the time it had seemed far away, but now it was ominously near. "It's time to go," he told Timmins. "It's time to cross over." "Let me go with you," Timmins said, surprising them both. Anton laughed. "You can come later. But I need you to stay behind and tell my story." "Why am I always the one who stays behind, while you have adventures?" "It's what we agreed long ago. We each do what we're good at. My job is to take risks, and yours is to stay here and guard the base. If it's any consolation to you, I'm sick of adventures. They aren't as glamorous as they seem, and I'm not looking forward to this one at all." "All the more reason for me to come. Don't you think I can help?" "These are my consequences to deal with, not yours. I got into this mess on my own. We're two different people, even if we tend to forget that. We weren't born from the same womb, and we won't go out the same way, either. We each have our responsibilities, our own job to do." Timmins frowned. "I think I should come this time. It's more dangerous than before." "Of course it's more dangerous. We're talking about martyrdom, death! Even for me, that's uncharted territory. I've seen the Borderlands hundreds of times, but I can't recall what lies beyond them, no matter how hard I try. I'm sure it'll come back to me once I'm there. I'll be like, 'Hey, there's that wall. Beyond it is the pier the boat leaves from.' Or, 'Here's the reception desk, with Marsha and Ben and their little clipboards.' Or, 'Here's the famous white light everyone talks about. Better steer clear of it, if I don't want to get sucked in.'" He laughed, in good spirits now. "I'm sure I'll be a nuisance, even there. Always wanting to go my own way. Always complaining about life on earth. The food, the culture, the health conditions. Too many wars. Too many assholes and jerks." That night, he dreamed he was on a high cliff at dawn, surrounded by a ring of warriors. They were about to shoot him with arrows, and he objected to that. He wanted them to come at him with their bare hands. "I want to see the face of my killer," he told them. "I want to look him in the eyes and see who would kill a beautiful, wonderful boy like me." The next morning, he packed his bags. He took his gun down from the shelf where he'd hidden it, and slipped it under the car seat. He found a little notebook that fit in his shirt pocket, and wrote Seeking Martyrdom on the cover. He would use it to record his adventures on the road. If he couldn't make it to Mexico, he would hole up in a cave in the desert somewhere, and die slowly of hunger and thirst. When they found the notebook next to his withered body, it would become a guidebook to his fans of the future. He showed Timmins how to disarm the briefcase with The Last Assassin, and rearm it. He urged him to protect the album no matter what. "Maybe you'll get another chance to release it. Maybe it won't be a wasted effort." Indicating the cardboard boxes, he said, "Everything I could salvage from the rubble of my life is here. It's a collection of treasures pulled from the ruins. Use it if you get the chance, or keep it as a souvenir. I entrust it to you." He spent the next few days in anxious waiting. He stayed indoors, away from the windows, avoiding the eyes even of birds and mice. At last Becky showed up with his driver's license, and within minutes he was on his way to his car. She remained on the porch as Timmins walked beside him. He put his bags in the trunk and turned to Timmins, who handed him a grocery bag full of money. He laughed when he saw what was inside. "What the hell is this?" It was full of hundred-dollar bills in tidy stacks. "It's all I have," Timmins said, "after years of careful investing." "I knew you were crazy, but not this crazy." Timmins shrugged. "It's the least I could do." "I don't need it. Not where I'm going." Timmins pressed the bag toward him. "Take it. I'll find a way." Anton thrust his hand into the bag and withdrew a few stacks. "I can use this for gas and burgers on the road, but you keep the rest. Don't feel bad about it, either. Money is a mental projection we use to give our lives meaning. What use is it to me now?" They embraced, and Anton got in the car. He backed off down the driveway as Becky and Timmins waved from the porch. • • • He drove across the plains of central Nebraska, hypnotized by the hum of tires on concrete. As the wheels made their endless repetitions, so did a phrase in his mind. "A depraved beacon in a sea of morality, a siren call to reckless youth." It was in the soothing voice of a film narrator, and with the words came an image. In a brackish, leaden sea menaced by dark, low-hanging clouds, a patch of sun illuminated an island where young people frolicked and built dream castles. Meanwhile, far out at sea, a storm-tossed barque sought shelter from a disastrous fate. Its young crew spotted the light and steered toward it. Drawing close enough to make out an island of refugees like themselves, they grew overjoyed and embraced each other, bursting into the sun in a state of rapture. The vision was a happy one, suggesting that his career had served a purpose. The "depraved beacon" was something to be admired, because it had brought the youth to safety. He'd sent a shaft of light into the world that said, "Here is shelter," and those of like mind had gathered. • • • Somewhere in Kansas, a girl at a cash register handed him a map of Mexico. "Take this," she said. "It's free with your purchase." He could feel the hostility in her gaze. She was saying, "Get lost. Run to Mexico." She must be one of the Colonel's scouts, he decided. They could show up anywhere, in any guise. If they were chasing him to Mexico, so be it. • • • The man pumping his gas was gangly and bug eyed, with a scruffy mustache. Sandy brown hair stuck out from under his cap. "Ain't you some kind of Hollywood rock star?" he asked Anton. Anton laughed. "Yeah, I'm Slade Willis. I play bass for Verboten." "No, that's not the guy. You're...you're...I saw you on TV just the other night." "That's impossible," Anton said. "I've never been on TV." The man narrowed his eyes. He remembered a celebrity who didn't like TV. His image fit the man in front of him. "I knew you was a Hollywood rock star. You're Anton Dupree!" Anton's jaw clenched. He felt ill. Numbers flickered on the display as the pump chugged its laborious rhythm. The man hung up the nozzle. "You know that movie, Exquisite Corpse? That's supposed to be you, ain't it? But the actor don't look much like you." Anton threw up, spraying the man's shoes. He shoved a handful of cash out the window, and took off without waiting for his change. • • • He took his gun from under the seat and fondled it gently. He was feeling desperate, and he felt like crying. "It's raining," he said under his breath. "It's very cold and getting dark." He squeezed his eyes shut so tight they hurt. "I am angry. I will blow up Denver." He stopped at a Wal-Mart outside of Denver, and got all the things he needed to blow up the city. He got ribbons and chocolates, postcards and neckties, paper clips and little glass horses. • • • He stopped at a sad little diner because he was feeling sad. He was in western Colorado, about an hour from the Utah border. He slipped his notebook into his pocket as he stepped from the car, thinking he might sit at the counter and write a few words. He flinched to hear his own voice on the radio as he walked in. It was "Wake-Up Call," which had been a big hit in the Heartland a few years back. Apparently they still couldn't get it out of their minds. He took an empty stool. The waitress seemed to hesitate before taking his order. "What can I get you?" she asked in a voice that was softer than it might have been. "Ham and eggs, pancakes, and lots of coffee. I've got a long drive ahead of me, so I need all the coffee I can get." "I'll get you started, then!" She poured him a cup. Her unexpected laugh bubbled to the surface. "'Cause life is hard, mean, and rough, and it don't last long." Now that "Wake-Up Call" was finished, another song of his followed. It was "Otherwise" from his first album. He stared at her in surprise. "Is that all you folks listen to around here, that pansy has-been? You got choices, you know, this is America." "I made the tape," she said firmly. "It's what I like. Don't you hear what he's singing about? It's what we're all feeling, only we don't have the words to say it." She searched his eyes, troubled. "Speak for yourself." He shoved potatoes ferociously into his mouth. "Something about you reminds me of him. I think it's your eyes." She studied them again. "Yep. You got the same eyes as him." She glanced over her shoulder, comparing. On the shelf next to the tape player was a photo of Anton, looking cute and teen-idolish. Luckily, he didn't resemble the photo at all. His eyes were red and bleary, not pale and clear. "You can do better than worshiping rock stars," he told her. "He doesn't know you exist! He might look all sweet in that picture, but you won't get a thing from him for all that." She was sober now. "I know it's a dream, but there's nothing else here for me." "Then you should get out." He was tired of talking, so he looked out the window. He studied the horizon for a long time. An old rancher came in, wearing jeans and a Stetson, and she went to serve him. The photo of Anton stared down at them with pale, soulful eyes. The girl wasn't around when he paid for his meal, but he found her again as he got in his car. "I was just getting off work," she said breathlessly. "Can you give me a ride?" He hadn't seen her until he was already in his seat. By then, he'd followed through on his motion and shut the door. They sat side by side, his key poised at the ignition. "What the hell?" He felt under the seat to make sure his gun was still there. She extended her hand. "I'm Ann. Ann Vermeer. Sorry to bust in like this." "Steve Banning," he said testily. "Where are you going? I'm getting back on the highway. I don't have time to drive you around." She flushed. "I'll go wherever you go. Just get me out of this place." "Fuck off." He dropped his hand from the ignition, and tried to reach past her to the passenger door. He was angry enough to expel her with his feet. She drew back into the corner, between him and the door handle. "If you try to kick me out, I'll scream. I'll fight. I'll say you were trying to rape me." "Rape you!" He laughed. "You've got to be kidding." "You said I should get out of this town, and I will!" Her eyes dared him to contradict her. How typical, he was thinking. He went through life trying to make choices, and then something like this happened that defied all logic. He wondered what he did to attract these desperate types. She hadn't recognized him as Anton, but she'd been obsessing about Anton for so long that she was drawn to him anyway, despite his thin disguise. Reasoning with her wouldn't help. Nothing would help. He started the engine. "We're going to Mexico, where outlaws disappear. How's that with you?" She blinked excitedly. "Are you an outlaw?" "Well, I've got this." He pulled the gun from under the seat. "And this." He pulled out the stack of hundreds he kept next to it. "And now I've got you to worry about." She felt lucky to be with a sharp fellow like him, on the run with money and attitude. He would know how to carve out a niche for himself in Mexico. She imagined them running a nightclub together, in Acapulco maybe. She would be his comfort and support. She would rub his shoulders and bring him drinks, calming his nerves so he could do his job. She saw colorful dresses, domino players, a parrot in a cage. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>