<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 27 Time to Go Timmins emerged to greet Anton as he was coming up the path. He stood on the porch barefoot, wearing overalls and a John Deere cap. He seemed harmless enough. The scene was familiar to Anton from the visions Timmins had sent him, and from the painting he'd seen at the mental hospital. Obviously it was an important moment for Timmins. They embraced and Timmins said, "Welcome," although he didn't speak. They went inside and sat in the parlor. Over the fireplace was the same painting. There was a telescoping effect, and everything snapped into place. It was as if he'd never left Iowa. He was inside the vision now. Yet his time away had been real. He'd made real mistakes, and the forces he'd unleashed were still after him. He was thankful that Timmins wasn't mixed up in all that. He was thankful that Timmins was a loner who never got visitors from town. It was as if Timmins belonged to a different order of things entirely. He could be invisible here for a time. Timmins could see that life had been hard on Anton lately. "The most sensitive receptors burn out first," he was thinking. Anton had never been so haggard and fidgety before. Now he was self-destructing. He had come to say goodbye. Timmins gave him a mental tour of the house, showing him the shower and his choice of beds. "Your boxes are here." Anton had a sudden image of his boxes in the hall closet. Timmins excused himself to go paint. Anton had been on the road for several days, and was feeling tired and robotic after the long journey. He was desperate to get some sleep, but he went to the hall closet and took out the boxes. They were still sealed with tape, apparently untouched since Steve had packed them. Inside he found everything he treasured most: his writings, tapes of his musical ramblings, press clippings and photos, his fetish necklace and his 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. He was grateful to Steve for his foresight. All this had been saved from Johnny Champion and the recent bonfire. The whole sorry adventure in Idaho flashed before him. He and Steve had been playing at being outlaws when they should have been happy. The master tapes for The Last Assassin were there, in their high-impact briefcase. Taking the unlucky object in his hands, he opened it with practiced moves. He removed the gun and slipped it under some towels on the shelves above him. He wasn't hiding it from Timmins, he just didn't like leaving guns lying around in the open. He 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 personal papers: his journal, attempts at poetry, college notes, photos of himself with Anton, a book he'd been reading, a folder labeled "Documents" which held his birth certificate. He'd left behind everything that mattered to him, sure that he and Anton would be reunited. Tragically for both of them, they had been. Anton felt a sharp pain as he fingered these relics. At the same time, they gave him an answer to his dilemma. He had to be back on the road within days, but for now he did nothing. Years of frenzied motion caught up with him and he was annihilated, crushed. All he wanted to do was lie around on a big cushion, and talk to people who would feed him bite-sized pieces of fruit. He imagined himself coming along a corridor into a room filled with dignitaries from foreign planets, all waiting to conquer him. The room he was coming into was his bedroom. The dignitaries were pieces of fruit. After a couple of days, Becky came on a visit. She was working as a pharmacist's assistant in their hometown before beginning grad school. She lived on the family farm not far from Timmins, so she checked in on him often. She was surprised to find Anton there. She seemed to remember Timmins saying something about it, but she often tuned out when Timmins spoke about Anton. She gave Anton a hug, but her real feelings showed. For the last few years she'd made it her business to look after Timmins, to protect Timmins. She felt that Timmins was too dependent on Anton emotionally, and she'd done everything she could to wean him away. She saw Anton as a neighborhood bully with a history of terrorizing Timmins. Now he was back. He wouldn't be there unless something was wrong. The way Becky combed out Timmins' hair was telling. She lingered over it, humming to herself, while Timmins stared round-eyed into space. When Anton left the room at one point and returned unexpectedly, he caught them holding hands. His first reaction was one of shock, because he'd never known Timmins to take an interest in such things. Then he realized that it made sense. If any woman could be good for Timmins, it was Becky. They were both shy about their new intimacy, but soon it became clear that Becky would be spending the night. His failure to impress Becky had accomplished something after all, it had pointed her to Timmins. Despite his bitterness, he felt happy for his friend. Still, he wondered how it had happened. Neither of them seemed capable of making the first move. Confused, Timmins told him, "I did it for you. 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?" Throughout his career he'd been telling himself, "I'm doing it for Timmins, who isn't here." Yet he'd wandered far from the vision of their youth. He'd gone into the world on a mission, but he'd lost his way. His self-indulgent fantasy of revolt had put their whole project in doubt. Timmins saw it differently. Anton had been bound to fail, because he was the only real thing in the world. There was nothing out there but his own illusions. Yet it was his nature to seek a challenge. If nothing else was real, he would fight illusions. He reminded Anton gently, "We love each other with intensity and reason. We're able to act because we are inspired by truth." In childhood they'd dreamed of a network of others like themselves. During his first days in Portland, Anton had believed that he'd discovered such a network. Kliff had shown him the world behind the veil, but Sabrina and Johnny Champion weren't people like them. Apparently no one was like them except for a few scattered mutants, disorganized and under attack by Reinhold's agents. At least they'd learned something from the ordeal. The situation was serious. They were faced with an implacable enemy, a malicious force bent on replacing beauty with power. • • • On Becky's second visit, Anton told her he was on the run. "Not from the legal authorities exactly, but from others more dangerous. That means I won't be sticking around, I suppose you'll be pleased to know." "Stay as long as you like, Anton. That's your decision." "I wish it was. But my enemies are stronger than I thought, and I lost the battle. Now they're out there, circling. They don't know where I am, exactly, but once they've fixed me in their sights, they'll attack. I don't want to be here when that happens. I don't want you or Timmins to be caught up in that. The thing is, I need a car. But how do I get one? I need to show my head as little as possible." She understood what he was asking. "You want me to find you a car?" "Something that doesn't stand out, but with a good engine." She hesitated, knowing how demanding he could be. "This is really something you should do for yourself." Still, it seemed like a small price to pay, if it meant that he would soon be leaving. "It's simple. Not flashy, good engine." He handed her a wad of money. She took it, fearing it was the profits from a bizarre drug-rape-murder scheme. "Just pick up the local papers and make some calls. Tell them it's for your cousin Steve. If something stands out, buy it. Bring it to me with the title, and I'll take it into town to get the papers." He gave her a playful pat on the ass, knowing she would hate that. She punished him by asking, "Are you going to see your family? Do they know you're here?" He winced. He hadn't exchanged a word with his parents since his departure several years before. "Please don't tell them, Becky, for their own protection. If they know I'm back, they'll tell their friends and neighbors. That'll draw the mosquitoes, and that can't happen. In fact, don't tell anyone." It seemed almost inhuman to Becky that he would refuse to see his own family. "What kind of trouble are you in? You had a falling out with those criminals you hang out with back in Portland?" "You know what? You were right. Does it feel good to hear that? I was stupid to trust those people. I was stupid to trust myself. So now I'm nobody again, like you. Only it's worse than that, they want to kill me. Do you understand that? Those people want me dead." He still wasn't sure they would go that far, but it amounted to the same thing. Reinhold was after him and he wasn't going back. Becky resented him for all the nuisance and melodrama that swirled around him. He exaggerated even his failures. He'd failed because of excessive ambitions, and because his talent hadn't kept up with his opinion of it. Was that any reason to say that people wanted him dead? She doubted they cared all that much, although obviously they had cared enough to drive him out of Portland. She still felt some affection for Anton, on account of what he had been like as a teenager. His vast potential had inspired everyone around him. Without their even realizing it, he had been the carrier of their hopes. What he had done with those hopes was another matter. If he had thought of making himself useful to others, he would have gone further. Instead he had only served himself. Life had been more peaceful before his return. She'd had Timmins to herself, and that had been good for Timmins. Timmins had finally begun to look after himself, and develop patterns of behavior that were healthy. She didn't know how to help Anton, because she couldn't make up her mind if he was being paranoid about the fix he was in. She decided to do what he asked of her and leave it at that. • • • Anton's plan was to run to Mexico, where he would try to start a new life of some kind. He would be a blond-haired, clear-eyed Mexican, a nightclub owner on the beach. Of course Reinhold's influence reached into Mexico, but there might be other forces in play there that could help him. In any case, he would need plenty of cash when the time came. Given the circumstances of his departure from Portland, he didn't have much. What he'd given Becky for the car was most of it. He didn't know if his bank accounts had been frozen yet, but any attempt to draw from them would be a mistake. Timmins understood this, so he decided to raid his trust fund for Anton's sake. He was finally twenty-one and the money was his. Anton had helped him escape from the mental hospital by buying him a house, and he wanted to repay the favor. Each of them would get what he wanted, Timmins his refuge from the world, and Anton a quick getaway. Money meant nothing to him anyway. "Time is money," and he had plenty of time. Anton was the opposite. Anton wanted to convert all his time to money and burn it, so he would have nothing left. One morning he asked Becky to let him ride into town with her. She'd been looking for a car for Anton, and had come the night before with a few choices. Today she was planning to make the purchase. When she heard that Timmins wanted to go with her, she was stunned. Ever since his family's accident, he'd had a deathly fear of cars. He called them "hurtling metal boxes." The trip from the mental hospital had been a major ordeal, requiring blankets and cushions, tranquilizers and a blindfold. What shocked her was how casually he asked now. "Timmins, are you sure you want to do this?" He smiled. "Old habits are meant to be broken, don't you think?" He got in the passenger seat as if it were normal for him, and rode into town quite calmly. It was time to function in the world a little, because Anton would no longer be around to work that end of things. For Becky it was a sign of progress, though her protective instincts were aroused and it concerned her. In a way, she preferred a helpless Timmins. She let him off in front of the austere brown offices of his financial adviser, Mr. Brock. After assuring herself again, "Are you okay with this?" she went off to pay for Anton's car. He was let into an office with heavy furniture and dark woodwork. Mr. Brock was a beefy type, a former athlete who still played tennis. They had talked a few times on the telephone, but this was the first time they had met in person. He'd always thought of Mr. Brock as his grandmother's flunky, the man who said no. Now he was twenty-one, and he was the client. "Is there any money left in the account?" he began. "Or have you guys spent it all?" "It's all there, Timmins," Mr. Brock said smoothly. "Your grandmother just took what she needed to pay for your clothes, schooling, art supplies and so forth. That was the agreement." "And my hospitalization...?" "On the expensive side. But it was seen as being in your best interests at the time. That's what the judge signed off on." "The money's mine now, to do with what I want?" "Of course it's yours. Always has been. And yes, you're free now to use it however you like. Only, if you want us to continue to watch it for you, to invest it prudently as we have been...." "No, I think I'll take it now." Mr. Brock was taken aback. "Well, I don't have the money right here in my desk! I can't just....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?" he said hotly. "Do you think I can't manage my own finances?" He started to get up from his chair. Mr. Brock hastened to soothe his client. "Most people with sizeable assets nowadays need 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, say, there'd be a loss of more than ten percent on the original investment, for any reason. Put the cash in an ordinary bank account under my name. Whatever you can't convert, I want a list explaining what it is, and why it's tied up. Is that okay with you, Mr. Brock? I think it's time—" "Certainly, Timmins." "I just think it's time I took control." "Yes, Timmins," Mr. Brock said wearily. "If you need my signature on anything, you know where to find me." He stood and shook Mr. Brock's hand, then waited for Becky in a donut place across the street. He had a powdered donut with jam inside, and coffee from a paper cup. When he saw her drive up, he walked outside where she could see him. "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 a gas station near Timmins' house. Timmins shuddered, because he was dreading the ride home. His bravery from earlier was wearing off. "I had an incident. I asserted myself," he remembered. He told her the story. Back at the house, he went off to paint, leaving Anton and Becky sitting together in the parlor. Anton blinked attentively as Becky explained the situation. His car would be delivered the next day. He could walk to the gas station to pick it up, then go into town to have it registered. She handed him the money she hadn't used. Registering the car was the biggest risk he was taking, but it was unavoidable. He'd never had a driver's license before, and would have to get one. Of course he would use Steve's birth certificate. Steve was more than three years younger than him, but Anton could pass for nineteen. Fortunately the people at the DMV weren't likely to recognize him. He would say that he was Becky's cousin, and use her address. If they had to mail him something, he would tell her afterward. She would be angry, but she would go along. If they gave him his license plates on the spot, he wouldn't even have to tell her. In a see-what-we-do-for-you tone, Becky described Timmins' encounter with Mr. Brock. Anton was amused. "Timmins threw a temper tantrum? But 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 there, so I had to do it.'" Anton shivered. "He's right, you know. Anton isn't here. That's the way it'll be from now on." She looked at him questioningly. "I hate this." "Anton...." "You're going on with your lives, the two of you! It's convenient for you, isn't it, seeing me disappear?" "Stop it!" "Couldn't you wait to make it with him, at least, until I'm already dead? Do I have to see with my own eyes what I'll be missing? It's Anton who has to cross over, so his friends can live in peace. Would you do the same for me?" His anger was spent. "Fuck it. I'm not gonna ruin this now, by being spiteful." "What are you talking about?" she said, perplexed. Each thought the other was bluffing. They stared at each other a long time. Finally he spat out, "Figure it out, I'm gonna die. And 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, it's gonna happen real soon." • • • He picked up the car, wrote Steve's name on the title, and took it to the DMV in his old hometown. He used his youthful charm as always, and the woman at the counter helped him through the steps. He could no longer rely on being a celebrity to get him special treatment. He had to pass the tests. He was photographed and fingerprinted. Then he was officially Steve Banning, nineteen. Back at Timmins' house, he was eager to celebrate by taking the car for a spin on the country roads at night. Timmins offered to come along. Anton was no less surprised than Becky that Timmins was willing to ride with him. "I have to do this," he said, making it sound like therapy. His real reason for coming was to extend his zone of protection around Anton for a time. They were thirty miles out when a policeman's lights came on behind them. Timmins whispered, "Pull the car over. Don't say a word. I'll take care of it." Anton slowed to a stop on the shoulder, and Timmins stuck his head out the window. An officer approached the car, boots crunching on wet gravel. For some reason he came up to the passenger's side, rather than to the driver's side where Anton was. "Evening, officer," Timmins engaged him. "Do you have any passengers with you tonight?" "No, sir." Narrowing his eyes, the officer shined his flashlight in Timmins' face. "How old are you, son?" "Twenty-one." "You from around here?" "Down the road in Moline." The officer looked doubtful. "Just look at my plates." The officer stepped back and looked at the plates. He shined his light around inside the car, and returned it to Timmins' face. Then he touched his hat. "Okay, then. This time, I'm giving you a warning. 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." Anton had proof now that Timmins was protecting him, but he sensed the protection would wear thin. He'd been lucky so far, but the danger of staying was growing obvious. His foray into town had been provocative, and he feared it would draw a reaction before long. The sooner he moved on, the better. Leaving was as dangerous as staying put, but it gave him the illusion of having some say-so in the matter. Becky came from town the next day with the news that a woman she didn't know had been asking for Anton at the drug store where she worked. "She must be a friend of yours," she prompted, but her expression was doubtful. "You told me not to say anything, so I didn't. I said you must still be in Portland." He thought of Sabrina. "What did she look like?" "Tall, black hair, stylish...." "Asian, maybe?" "I don't have a good image, frankly." She seemed troubled by this. She sensed Anton's nervousness and tried to soothe him. She assured him he would be safe among friends. Still, the episode had been creepy. She had lied to the woman without thinking. She could no longer dismiss Anton's fears out of hand. It occurred to Anton that Sabrina was trying to get to him before Reinhold did, so she could offer him her protection, a way out. Immediately he crushed this hope. Sabrina was just Reinhold in drag. Any option she offered would make him her slave. She wanted to feed on him before destroying him. Besides, he had nothing left to bargain with since his falling out with Reinhold. Sabrina had told him that the referees policed each other, using mutual competition to keep each other in line. If they were competing now to get to him first, it was worse than he'd thought. He had no time to lose. He knew the scope and power of the Reinhold organization. If he wanted to survive on the run, paranoia would have to be his normal state. Everywhere he went, there would be a secret friend prepared to betray him. He would have to drop all resemblance to his famous self, all his old habits, anything recognizable as Anton Dupree. He would have to be reborn. He knew that Timmins wouldn't like being left behind again. Timmins wasn't looking forward to being the chronicler of the End Times, any more than Anton had looked forward to a life of crash and burn. Still, it was a joint effort. Anton had stormed the Citadel so that Timmins might portray its secrets. He had to cross over so Timmins could paint his escape. Their separate destinies decreed it. 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, Reinhold's progress could be slowed. Perhaps the next generation would be more receptive to their message as conditions worsened. A new spirit would be born in humanity that would make them less gullible, less easily led. Anton didn't want to believe this. He'd made up his mind to leave, and was focused on the challenges ahead. "The Borderlands should be awfully familiar to a seasoned traveler like me, don't you think? But I can't recall what lies beyond them, no matter what I do. I'm sure it'll come back to me once I'm there. I'll be like, 'Yeah, there's that wall. Beyond it's the pier where the boat leaves from.' Or I'll be, 'Here's the reception area, with courtesy clerks Marsha and Dan and their little clipboards.' Or, 'Here's that famous white light everyone talks about. Better avoid it if I don't want to get sucked in.'" He laughed, in good spirits now. "I'm sure I'll be a terror, even there. Not one to take direction, prone to go my own way. Always complaining about life on earth—the food, the culture level, the health conditions. Too many wars. Too many assholes and jerks." "Let me go with you. I can help you there, I think." The idea caught Anton's fancy for a moment. He had no doubt that Timmins' special powers would come in handy there. He made a movement like shucking a burden. "I want you to stay behind and tell my story. You know how the plot runs from here. It's up to you to paint the Citadel, the revolutions to come. Finish the story, Timmins, I'm outa here." "Why leave me here with all this misery?" "That's half the deal between us, isn't it?" Timmins remembered a room with a rose-colored curtain. Anton stood over him in a shaft of sunlight. "You laugh now, but wait and see," Anton had said. That night Anton dreamed that he was on a high cliff at dawn, surrounded by a ring of men. They were about to shoot him with arrows. "I want to see the face of my killer," he heard himself saying. They were positioned at a distance, and he objected to that. "Don't make a sport of me. Step up and slit my throat, that's the best way. Only first I want to see my killer's face. I want to look him in the eyes and see what kind of person would kill a beautiful, wonderful boy like me." The next day, Timmins tried to hand him a paint-spattered canvas sack. When he saw that it was full of hundred-dollar bills, he took one bundle and handed back the rest. "What good will it do anyway?" his eyes said. He got in his car and headed south. He was ready to jettison himself into the vortex of the dark night. • • • "A depraved beacon in a sea of morality, a siren call to reckless youth." As he drove across the shapeless plains, the phrase repeated in his mind in the soothing voice of an educational film narrator. With it 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 naked and built dream castles. 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. In Anton's mind, the voyagers' adventures were a cross between the Argonauts and Noah's Ark. The "depraved beacon" was something to be admired, because it had brought them to safety. The vision was a happy one, because it suggested that his career as a musician had served a purpose. He had sent a shaft of light into the world that said, "Here is shelter," and those of like mind had gathered. • • • Somewhere in central Kansas, a girl at a cash register handed him a map of Mexico. "Take this, it's free with your purchase." He could sense the hostility in her gaze. She was saying, "Begone from here. Get thee to Mexico." She must be one of the Colonel's scouts. How could he avoid them? They would appear from anywhere, in any guise. A checkout clerk, a fire hydrant, it was all the same to a dog like Anton. If they were chasing him to Mexico, so be it. He wondered again if he was being paranoid. He was just the sort of person who would invent a private fantasy more complicated than the real world. • • • "Aren't you some kind of Hollywood rock star?" The man at the next pump was gangly, with bugged-out eyes and a scruffy mustache. His sandy brown hair stuck out from under his cap. Anton gave him a false lead. "Yeah, I'm Slimy. 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. I've never been on TV." The other man's eyes narrowed to slits. He remembered a celebrity who didn't like TV, who'd just been busted for porn and drugs. His mental image fit the person in front of him. "You're Anton Dupree. I knew you was a Hollywood rock star!" Anton finished pumping his gas. "That movie, right, Exquisite Corpse? That was you. That actor don't look much like you though, huh?" Anton threw up, right there on the spot. His nose burned from backfired chunks. He jumped in his car and drove off, screeching and kicking up dust. • • • He wanted to cross into Mexico at one of the Texas border towns, but Texas spooked him because there were so many ghost trucks. A white truck with no markings seemed to cruise by every few minutes. Sabrina's network of assassins was active there. He turned north again and set his sights on Denver. He pulled his gun from under the seat. He fondled it grimly, feeling desperate. "It is raining. It is very cold and getting dark." He cried cold, bitter tears. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight they hurt. "I am angry. I will blow up Denver." He stopped at a K-Mart and got all the things he needed to blow up Denver. He got postcards and cigarettes, chocolates and neckties, paper clips and little glass horses. He blew up Denver and headed west. If there was a sacred place anywhere on earth, he would go there now so he could be at peace. Of course he would die there, but it would be worth it just to know that something on earth was holy. Its influence would have touched him, however subtly. His time on earth would not have been in vain. He saw himself by the shore of a shallow lake, the air uncannily still, the light brassy and intense. Beyond that, salt flats extended to the horizon, a harsh terrain that refused to echo his presence. How could he endure such desolation? There was no alternative but to submit completely, to end his anguish by giving in. • • • Coming down out of the Rockies, he went into a sad little diner because he was feeling sad. He flinched to hear his own voice on the radio as he walked in. It was "Wake-Up Call," which had been quite a hit in the Heartland. Apparently they couldn't get it out of their minds. He took an empty stool. The teenage waitress seemed to stop for a second before taking his order. "What can I get you?" she said in a voice that was softer than it might have been. "Ham and eggs and 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 right away then." She poured him a cup. Her laugh rose to the surface unexpectedly, like an underwater air pocket that had just been released. "'Cuz life is hard, mean and rough, and it don't last long." He looked at her in surprise. Now that "Wake-Up Call" was finished, here came another one, "Otherwise" from his first album. His mouth was twitching uncomfortably, so he turned it into a sneer. "Is that all you listen to around here, that pansy has-been? I mean you got choices, 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, we just don't have words for it." She searched his eyes, growing increasingly troubled. "You're full of it if you ask me." He gazed with a scowl into his cup. "Sometimes I feel like he's there with me even when I'm—" She flushed and broke off. He began shoving potatoes ferociously into his mouth. She was still looking at him. "Something about you reminds me of him. I think it's your eyes." She studied them again. "You got the same eyes as him, I swear." She glanced over her shoulder, comparing. On the shelf next to the tape player was a photo of Anton from some magazine, looking cuddly and teen-idolish. "When was that taken? I never did cute pictures like that," he wanted to blurt out. Luckily there was no resemblance between the idol and him. Even his eyes now were red and jittery. "You can do better than worshiping rock stars. He may look all sweet there 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." Like me, he was thinking. He was tired of talking, so he looked out the window. He studied the horizon for a long time. Meanwhile an old rancher came in, wearing jeans and a white Stetson, and she went to serve him. The photo of Anton blessed them all with its pale, soulful eyes. He learned the girl's name soon enough, in the car, where he found her after paying for his meal. "I was just getting off work," she said breathlessly. "I was hoping you'd give me a ride." Anton blinked. He hadn't seen her until he was in his seat, and by then he had followed through on his motion and shut the door. There they were, side by side, his key poised at the ignition. "I'm Ann, by the way. Ann Vermeer. I'm sorry to bust in like this." He figured she was lying about getting off work. Even so, he couldn't figure out how she had gotten out of the restaurant faster than he had. "Steve Banning," he said testily. "Where are you going? I'm headed south." "I'll go wherever you go," she admitted. "Just get me out of here." He dropped his hand from the ignition. "Get out." He 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 of the wide seat, but wouldn't let him near the handle. "If you try to kick me out, I'll scream. I'll fight. I'll say you were trying to kidnap me. Take me somewhere to be raped." He stared at her numbly. "You've got to be kidding." "I'm serious. You said I should get out of here, and I'm going to." Her eyes dared him to contradict her. This was so typical, he was thinking. He went through life trying to make choices, to live according to a plan like everyone else, then something like this happened that defied all logic. There was a time in his life when he'd sought this out because it made him feel special, but he was so over it. He wondered what he did to attract these desperate types. Why would this girl hop in his car on nothing but a whim? She hadn't recognized him as Anton, but she'd been steeping herself in Anton for so long that she'd practically become Anton. She'd sensed his Anton qualities through their thin disguise, and had bonded with him spontaneously. Reasoning wouldn't help, nothing would help. He started the engine. "We're going to Mexico," he told her once they were on the highway west. "Where outlaws disappear. That suit you?" "Are you an outlaw?" "Well, I got this." He showed her his gun, which he kept under the seat. "And this." He showed her the wad of hundreds he kept next to it. "And this car. And now I got you to worry about." She felt lucky to be with a young freelancer like this, on the run with cash and a sharp attitude. He would know a thing or two. He would know how to carve out a niche for himself in Mexico. She imagined them running a bistro 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 imagined colorful dresses, domino players, a parrot in a cage. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>