NINE
The Notebook
Ashley hears the faucet start.
"Perfect," he says. He hops down, grabs Miriam's messenger bag sitting by his feet where she dropped it, and hoists it up onto the bed.
He casts one more paranoid glance at the door. She should be in there a while. A home dye job isn't quick work. All that washing, all that combing through, all that waiting.
Satisfied, he starts going through the bag.
Item after item ends up in his hand, then on the bed. Lip balm. Hair ties. Small MP3 player so scratched and dinged it looks like it has been run through a wood chipper. Pair of tawdry romance novels (one with Smooth Blond Fabio on the cover, another with Dark Goateed Fabio). Clark's Teaberry gum (he doesn't know what the fuck "teaberry" is). A squeaky toy for dogs; it looks like a squirrel clutching an acorn in his mouth. Before he has time to think on that, out come the weapons. A can of pepper spray. A butterfly knife. Another can of pepper spray. A hand grenade –
"Jesus Christ," he says. Swallowing hard, he gently sets the grenade down on the pillow behind him. He steadies it, takes a deep breath, and then goes back into the bag.
Finally, he finds what he's looking for.
The diary.
"And Bingo was his Name-O."
It's a black notebook, its plastic cover nicked. The book is swollen, like a tumor filled with words instead of blood. He gives it a quick flip-through: tattered pages, some dog-eared, all colors and styles of pen (red, black, blue, Sharpie, ballpoint, uniball, one in fucking crayon, by the looks of it), each page dated, each page starting with Dear Diary and ending with Love, Miriam.
"So what about you?" Miriam asks, and Ashley damn near voids his bowels. He looks up, heart racing, expecting her to be standing there, but she's not. She's still on the other side of the bathroom door – she's yelling through, talking to him while she rocks the dye job.
He takes a deep breath. "What about me, what?"
"Where you from? What do you do for a living? Who are you?"
He flips to the front of the diary.
"Uh," he says, trying to focus on the words. "I'm from Pennsylvania. I'm an, uh, a traveling salesman."
"Yeah, right," she calls back. "And I'm a circus monkey."
"I've never had sex with a circus monkey before."
He flips a few more pages. His eyes drift over the words. His mouth starts to go dry. His heart races. It makes sense, but… He turns another ten pages and reads more. He mouths the words he reads without speaking them aloud –
Like trying to derail a train with a penny or kicking a wave back into the ocean, I can't stop shit, I can't change shit.
Flip.
What fate wants, fate gets.
Flip.
I am a spectator at the end of people's lives.
Flip.
Bren Edwards shattered his pelvis and died in a culvert. He had two hundred bucks in his wallet – I'm going to eat well tonight.
Flip.
It is what it is.
Flip.
Almost done with you, Dear Diary, then you know what happens.
Flip.
Just need a rich guy to bite it. That'll be the day.
Flip.
Dear Diary, I did it again.
His eyes catch something else in the messenger bag flopped on its side. He reaches in, pulls out a small year-long planner.
"I'm from Pennsylvania, too," Miriam calls out from the bathroom.
"That's great," he mumbles. He flips through the datebook. Most days are empty, but others? Others have names. Times. Little icons, too – stars, Xs, dollar signs.
And causes of death.
June 6, Rick Thrilby / 4:30PM / heart attack
August 19, Irving Brigham / 2:16 AM / succumbs to lung cancer
October 31, Jack Byrd / 8:22 PM / eats a bullet, suicide
And on, and on.
"Find anything interesting?" Miriam asks.
Ashley, startled, drops the book and looks up. She narrows her eyes, and darts her gaze between him, the diary sitting next to him, the grenade on the pillow, and her fallen bag.
"Listen," he starts, but she interrupts him.
With a fist. A straight clip to the mouth splits his lower lip. Pop. His teeth rattle. He's surprised, though he probably shouldn't be. She's been on the road for years now. Somewhere along the way, she learned how to throw a punch; and by the looks of that black eye, she knows how to take one, too.
"You're a cop," she says. "No. Not a cop."
"Not a cop," he mumbles around the palm pressed to his bleeding lip. He pulls his hand away, sees a streak of red.
A stalker. A psycho."
"I've been following you since Virginia."
"Like I said. Stalker. Psycho. You know what? Eff this." She pushes past him, fetching her books, her armory, her other debris and detritus, and cradles it all before upending it into the open mouth of her messenger bag. Ashley grabs her wrist, but she'll have none of it. She wrenches free. He reaches again, but she backhands him off the bed.
By the time he realizes what's happened, the front door is already open, and she's gone.
TEN
The Sun Can Go Fuck Itself
Birds tweet. Bees buzz. The sun shines, and the air is heady with honeysuckle perfume. Miriam squints against the bright light, wishes she had a pair of sunglasses. A sour feeling sucks at her gut; her bowels feel like ice water. She hates the sun. Hates the blue sky. The birds and the bees can go blow each other in a dirty bathroom. Her pale skin feels like it's about to split open like the skin of a microwaved hot dog. She's a night owl. The day is not her domain, which makes her reconsider – maybe I should've gone Vampire Red, after all.
Her boots stomp down the deserted back road. She's been walking for fifteen minutes now, maybe more. It feels like a lifetime.
She feels vulnerable. Like she got played. Miriam hasn't felt this way in a long time. She's the one with all the secrets. With the edge. Her nerves are electric. Anxiety nibbles. She doesn't know why. What's to worry about? What's he going to do?
She keeps walking.
The road twists and turns. Up a hill. Under a copse of trees. Around the bend sits a post-and-rail fence, a hand-painted mailbox, a half-collapsed barn and farmhouse. Perfectly pastoral. Miriam feels like smashing handfuls of gravel into her eyes and rubbing vigorously. She's not even sure why she's so angry.
She hears a car coming up behind her. It slows.
A white Mustang. It's Lying Sneaky Asshole.
It pulls up alongside of her, the passenger window down. Ashley leans over, one hand easy on the wheel. He peers out at her. The smile is gone. He's all serious-faced.
"Get in," he says.
"Suck my dick."
"Nowhere to go."
"I got my getaway sticks. They take me all kinds of places."
"I know who you are. I know what you do."
"You don't know rat rubes from rum punch. Whatever you think you know damn sure isn't the half of it. Keep driving. Get away from me."
She keeps walking. He continues to ease the car alongside her.
"I'm not going to sit here and drive along like an asshole," he says. "I'm done arguing. Just get in the car. Don't be a twat."
Miriam reaches in her bag, and with a quick pivot of her wrist, the butterfly knife is out; metal gleams, and the blade flies free of the split handle.
"Hey–" he says.
She lags behind a second and kneels. He tries to see what she's doing, but by the time he gets his head out the window, it's too late. One thrust and the knife punctures the back tire of the Mustang. Air hisses from the rubber, a whispering fart.
"What the – ?" he yells out from the car. "Where are you – oh, Jesus Christ."
By the time he's taking the Lord's name in vain, she's already at the opposite back tire, slicing a new mouth in the rubber. It too leaks a steady hiss.
The rubber flaps on asphalt with each turn of the tire: thup thup thup thup.
She passes by his driver's side window while he's still looking out the passenger side, and calls in: "See? Told you my getaway sticks will do the trick. Don't go driving on that thing. You'll dick up the rims."
Then she gives him the finger and jogs away, leaving the hobbled Mustang behind.