Already Gone

– 48 –



By the time we get on the road, the morning traffic is just starting to thin. We pass a couple cop cars on the way out of town, and each time my nerves splinter a little more. It’s not until the city is far behind us that I feel myself start to relax.

Diane doesn’t.

Every now and then I catch her looking over my shoulder at the speedometer, and I slow down.

She asks if I want her to drive.

“No,” I say. “It keeps me calm.”

“If we get pulled over—”

“We’re not going to get pulled over.”

“But if we do—”

“I know.”

The words come out harsher than I’d intended, but I don’t care. Diane doesn’t need to lecture me on what will happen if we’re pulled over. We don’t have papers on the SUV, and neither of us has a driver’s license. My face is bandaged and bruised, and there’s a gun in the glove compartment. Any cop would be suspicious.

“It’s important, Jake. We need to be careful.”

I lean forward and turn on the radio. Diane takes the hint. After a few minutes the sound of the DJ’s voice starts to give me a headache, so I shut it off.

I expect Diane to start in again on my driving, but instead she turns toward the passenger window and ignores me.

We drive for several hours in silence.





I stick to the roads Doug told me about. Most are minor highways, two lanes cutting a wide black gash through the hills and down into the desert. The few cars we see are either dusty, late-model American cars or cattle trucks.

Thirty miles from the border, I slow down and pull over.

“What are you doing?”

“You should drive. We’re getting close, and we won’t stand out as much if you’re behind the wheel.”

She opens the passenger door and steps out onto the shoulder. We both walk around to the front of the car, and as she passes me, I reach out and grab her hand.

“No, Jake.”

I let her go. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She looks up at me, then away. “I’ll just feel better when this is done and we’re in Mexico. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She smiles, then turns and walks the rest of the way around the car to the driver’s side. A few minutes later, we’re back on the road.

By the time we reach the border, the sun is sitting low on the horizon, and all around us the evening light is warm and orange.

Diane is squeezing the steering wheel tight. I reach over and put my hand on her leg.

“It’s going to be fine. Relax.”

“Why aren’t you nervous? You’re the one everyone is looking for.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just not. Doug told me they don’t usually stop people on the way out of the country, just coming in.”

“When did he say that?”

“This morning.”

“What else did he tell you?”

I think about my conversation with Doug and try to think of something I can share. “He said we should carry extra cash for the police.”

“What for?”

“Bribes.”

Diane seems to think about this for a moment, then says, “We don’t have extra cash.”

“No,” I say. “So drive slow.”





The first time I see the police and the border guards on the bridge leading into Mexico, I feel a small knot tighten deep in my stomach. It fades when I notice the open gates and empty kiosks.

“Where is everyone?”

I point to the other side of the bridge and the congested northbound traffic. “Looks like they’re all over there,” I say. “Doug was right.”

“And as long as we never come back, we’ll be fine.”

I don’t like the tone of her voice, but I ignore it and look out the window at a group of four border guards standing around two patrol trucks.

They don’t look at us as we drive by.

Once we’re on the other side, we turn off the bridge and melt into the city traffic.





Diane stops at a hotel just off the highway and goes inside to get a room for the night. I stay in the car, under the dome light, tracing the route to El Regalo on the map. I use my finger to follow the thin red and blue road lines toward the coast, but my eyes are heavy, and I have to fight to keep them open.

A few minutes later, Diane comes out with a key.

“We got the last room,” she says. “They’re full.”

“We’re lucky.”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of people around here.”

She hands me the key then pulls the SUV around to the parking lot behind the building. I take the .38 from the glove compartment and slide it into the back of my belt before we go inside.

The room is like every other hotel room. There’s a bed, a desk, and a TV sitting on top of a dresser. The only window is barred and looks out on a chain-link fence and a small square of dying grass littered with trash blown in off the highway.

I close the curtains and turn on the desk lamp.

Diane stands by the door with her arms folded over her chest. She looks at me. “I don’t like this.”

“It’s just for the night.”

“I mean stopping,” she says. “We should’ve kept driving. You could’ve slept in the car.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not tired.”

“Not yet,” I say. “But we have a long way to go. If we leave early tomorrow morning, we’ll get there before dark. It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t like it.”

I hold out my hand.

Diane hesitates, then takes it. “Do you really think we’re safe down here?”

“As safe as anyone is in Mexico, I guess.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. “Do you think anyone is going to look for us down here?”

“How could they? No one knows where we are.”

“Doug knows.”

“He won’t say anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

Diane stares at me, then nods. “I’m going to take a bath. You should get some sleep.”

I watch her walk into the bathroom and close the door. A few minutes later, I hear the metal scrape of the shower curtain sliding open and water running in the tub.

I set the .38 on the table then sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the hum of the highway outside my window. The noise is loud, and it rolls into the room like the sound of an angry sea.

I reach down to take off my shoes, and my ribs scream at me. I bite down hard against the pain, and once it passes, I inch back on the bed and lie down.

There is a thin brown water stain on the ceiling. I look away and think about Diane, wondering what she’s thinking and if she’s okay. Part of me wants to stay awake to talk to her, but it’s impossible to keep my eyes open.

After a while, I quit trying.