The pants are too big in the waist and about two inches too short for me. One of the hems is coming unstitched so the left leg is actually longer than the right leg. Oh well. I almost leave my wet pants behind for him, but I decide not to risk it. I don’t want to leave a trail for McGhee and Gonzalez. Something tells me my stuff wouldn’t fit Shower Guy anyway. I ball my wet, heavy clothes up under my arm.
Cruising through the bathroom, I stop for just a second to check out my hair in the mirror. It’s sticking up all over. I’m going to look like a douchebag boy band singer when it dries. Either that or a crazy person. Best to find a hat, but not here. I can just imagine skulking around the campsite looking to score a forgotten baseball cap and having Shower Guy catch me wearing his oversized pants.
I follow the main path through the campground to a tall building made out of logs. The sign says that it opens at six. I plop down on the porch for a few minutes, studying the sky’s colors. I’m trying to decide what time it is, and whether I should risk hanging around, when an old sports car with a red eagle painted on the hood peels into the gravel parking lot. A kid my age gets out, wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
“S’up?” he says as he fishes in his pocket for the key to the front door.
“I lost my hat,” I say. “Just looking for a new one.” I follow him into the store, which thankfully has a whole slew of hats. I skim past the ones with sayings like “fishermen do it with crappie bait” and find a plain black hat with a brown leather brim. It’s still a little lame, but it beats getting arrested. I wear it forward, which is something I haven’t done since I played on a baseball team in middle school. I put on the cheapest pair of sunglasses I can find, mirrored “cop sunglasses” I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, and check out my reflection in one of the tiny rectangular mirrors built into the glasses carousel. Along with the hat and shades, I’m sporting a couple days’ growth of beard. Even I don’t think I look much like myself.
I figure by now Shower Guy has realized that someone stole his styling khakis. He’ll probably go back to his tent first and accuse whoever he’s camping with, but I should still get lost, just in case he heads up to the store to replace them.
I grab a couple of energy bars and sticks of beef jerky and line my purchases up on the counter. The cashier is texting on his phone and listening to the radio. As I’m handing him my wet money, the song ends and the DJ comes on for a special announcement. I tense up and one of my soggy bills ends up on the floor. My hands start shaking. I almost make a run for it. But the special announcement turns out to be about a lunchtime interview with a San Francisco band, and I feel stupid for almost blowing it. I’m expecting everything to play out like the movies, where the airwaves and TV stations are full of grave voices announcing that I, Max Cantrell, am a fugitive, presumed armed and dangerous.
And then I realize with a start that I am armed. The Colonel’s Glock is still in the side pocket of my wet cargo pants. Jeez! Good thing I didn’t leave them behind for Shower Guy.
I finish paying for my purchases and gingerly slide my wet clothes, along with the gun, into the crinkly plastic bag I get from the cashier. It’s time to get going. Like a shark, I remind myself. I lift my hand to touch my shark’s tooth pendant and remember it’s not there—I forgot to look for it in my camping gear. “Which way to town?” I ask.
“South,” the cashier says. “Make a left when you get to the road.”
I thank him and head out. I need to find a way to Vegas, but first I need to find civilization.
The Lazy Days gravel driveway ends at a paved two-lane road. All I see in either direction are rocks and trees. I don’t dare walk along the street. Just because the radio stations aren’t beeping in with special bulletins about me doesn’t mean they won’t be soon.
There’s a ditch that runs along one side of the road, with a dense line of pine trees just beyond it. I duck behind the thick, feathery branches, just far enough to stay out of sight, yet close enough so that I don’t lose track of the road.
The air is humid, but cool. I swipe at a cloud of gnats as I step across a fallen branch. Crickets chirp in the grass around me. An old truck with round headlights and a metal grill that looks like a face passes from the other direction. I hide farther back in the trees until the truck disappears from sight, and then I keep going.
After about a half an hour of walking, the sun starts to rise. I come across a green sign outlined in white that says EAGLE’S PASS: 8. Ugh. At least eight more miles to civilization, if a place called Eagle’s Pass even counts. It doesn’t sound like the kind of place that’s going to have a wide variety of prepaid cell phones for newly minted criminals such as myself. I look down at the stiff khakis with their fraying hems. Grand theft pants. Not sure stealing these would even count as a misdemeanor. More like an act of goodwill.
It takes almost three hours to get there, but Eagle’s Pass surprises me by having a gas station of unusual size—one of those trucker plazas with gas pumps, a Burger Barn, a doughnut shop, and a convenience store all rolled into one. There are little TVs mounted on the wall behind the cash register, and as I pay for a phone my eyes casually float upward. College football highlights are playing. No picture of me with a moving ticker tape of my alleged crimes flashing below it. So far, so good.
Only now I’m going to have to find a way to Vegas without a car, unless Parvati will come get me. I shouldn’t involve her, but she’ll get pissed if I don’t. Part of me thinks she’s been waiting her whole life for something like this—a chance to use the tactical skills she’s been honing since she was old enough to know what her father did for a living. Plus, I have to at least let her know I’m okay.
I duck into the men’s room and lock myself in one of the stalls. After quickly activating the phone, I realize I can’t call her on her burner phone because I don’t know the number. Swearing under my breath, I dial Parvati’s regular cell. Just as I expected, she doesn’t answer. I don’t feel safe leaving a message, so I decide to just hang out here for a while to see if she calls back. It’s possible her parents confiscated her phone or she doesn’t have it on her since she’s expecting me to call the prepaid. I’ll give her until lunchtime and then continue on to Vegas by myself.
Somehow.