Identity

The truck rattled and shook as he pushed it as fast as it could go. Because they were right behind him. Right behind him.

He had to get back, fast, to Dead Jane’s place. He’d broken his new rule and left clothes, equipment, cash—too much to lose again. He’d broken the rule because they shouldn’t be here.

Why had they come here?

When he reached the gate, leaped out, his legs nearly gave way under him. Fear had him sweat-soaked, shaky so his fingers fumbled with the padlock keys.

But he got the gate open, drove through, and gathered himself to lock it behind him again. Just in case.

He tore down the drive, struggling to clear his mind enough to think, just think. He’d take the old woman’s truck. A beater, but a better beater than this one. And maybe, somehow, they’d tracked what he’d been using.

He’d locked the cabin—safety first—so had to deal with those locks. Inside, he ripped through, shoving laundry he hadn’t done with laundry he had. His own breath sounded like a windstorm as he gathered up his equipment, disconnected some of hers to take.

The money, the money, the money, the IDs he’d completed.

The guns, the ammo, the knives—including the one the dead bitch had stabbed him with.

Chickens clucked and clacked as he ran to the shed, dragged the door open. He tossed tools into the bed of the truck, the clanging echoing as he threw in his bolt cutters, a pickax, a hatchet, a hammer.

Dust flew as he drove to the shack, tossed bags, suitcases, briefcases into the bed. He forced himself to take more care with the equipment, stuck the handgun under the driver’s seat. The rifle and shotgun went in the gun rack.

Let them come. He’d shoot them to pieces.

He needed water, food.

When he remembered all the food he’d bought, rage leaped into the fear.

He ripped open the door to the other truck, dragged out frozen dinners, frozen pizza, milk jugs, heaving them into the dirt. Time and money wasted, wasted.

As he raged, he screamed. As he screamed, something already cracked broke inside him.

He stood, looking around him at milk glugging onto the ground, at the dented boxes of potpies and fried chicken and gravy, the Dove Bars and extra-sharp cheddar.

And began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh so hard tears ran down his cheeks. He chuckled to himself as he transferred the other groceries, the liquor, the towels, from one truck to another.

Fuck it, fuck this shit, he was done with it. Time to close the books. Time for a reckoning. Time for a bitch to pay the goddamn piper.

“The time’s come, the walrus said,” he muttered as he bungee-corded one of Jane’s tarps over the bed of the truck.

He started to get into the truck, then decided what the hell. Walking over, he ripped open the box of Dove Bars, yanked one out, tore off the wrapper.

He ate it while he drove to the gate. “Adios, Jane!” he called out while he filled his mouth with ice cream and chocolate. “Thanks for fucking nothing!”

He unlocked the gate, drove through. And tossing the padlock keys out the window, started the drive east.



* * *



As Beck and Morrison walked across the street to their car, the grocery store clerk stood outside the market smoking a Marlboro to settle her nerves.

“Hey! You’re those feds, aren’t you?”

“Ma’am.” Morrison stopped at the passenger door, as he’d lost the toss to drive. “Special Agents Morrison and Beck.”

“Deb said there were feds poking around yesterday about some crazy guy. My day off.” She took a long drag. “Had my own crazy guy just a bit ago. Crazy eyes. Bought enough food for an army battalion. Gave me a look, a smile that turned my blood cold.”

“Is that right?” Beck felt a little hum, walked over. “We left a sketch of the man we’re looking for with the manager. Have you seen it?”

“Nah. I clock in, do my job, clock out. Mind my own business like everybody should.”

“Would you mind taking a look now?” Beck opened her briefcase, took one of the sketches out of a file.

“Guess I could. I’m taking my break because Crazy Eyes shook me up some.” She took the sketch, shoved at her sliding glasses. Shook her head. “Nope. This guy had shorter hair, sort of dirty blond—what I could see of it. And he…”

Pausing, she frowned. “Wait a minute. I guess maybe. It’s the eyes, those crazy eyes. But this one didn’t have a beard so much as a lot of scruff, and I think he had more weight in his face. But those eyes…”

“How about his height?” Morrison asked. “How tall would you say?”

“About six foot. Maybe just under.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Yeah, he said how a man’s gotta eat. I said, ‘Stocking up,’ because he had two full baskets of food, and he said how a man’s gotta eat.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“Didn’t sound like he’s from around here.” She shrugged and smoked. “More like back east, I guess. It maybe could be him, I can’t swear to it. But something wasn’t right about that guy. That I can swear to.”

“Did you see what he was driving?”

“No, sorry. Usually I’d’ve called for Tiny—he stocks shelves—to help him load up, but I didn’t. Just wanted him gone. Never saw him around here before that I noticed. At least I never checked him out before. Mustn’t live too far, I’d think, as he bought a shitload of frozens.”

Though she was reluctant, they got her name and contact.

“What are the odds?” Morrison wondered.

“Good enough to do another quick check. If you’re Rozwell, somehow got a place close enough to town to come in to buy food, what else do you stock up on?”

“If I’m holed up here, I’m going to buy a whole lot of alcohol.”

“Yeah, you would. Let’s follow the feeling, Quentin, show his picture one more time at the liquor store.”

When they walked into the liquor store, the clerk looked up from a paperback novel. Not the clerk from yesterday, Beck thought. Younger brother maybe.

“Help you?”

“FBI. Special Agents Beck and Morrison.” Beck held up her badge.

The clerk slid off his stool. “Oh, hey!”

“We’re looking for someone.”

“As long as it’s not me.”

Beck offered her best smile. “No, not you. This man.”

The clerk took the sketch, shifted from foot to foot. “That’s funny. Sort of.”

“What is?”

“He kind of looks like this fella who was in here about an hour ago. Around the eyes, he does. And yeah, the mouth, I guess. I didn’t like him.”

“No?” Beck leaned in, just a little. “Why?”

“Okay, he bought enough stock I could’ve closed the door for the day, and my brother—he owns the place—wouldn’t have known because the daily take would be more than it ever is. But he had mean all over him—the vibe, right? And he bought so much I just said how it looked like he was having a party. He gave me a look made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I think this is him, with shorter hair. What’d he do?”

“Did you see what he was driving?”

“I looked out, saw him loading the boxes of booze in a pickup. Old Chevy, rusted-out red.

“Hey, what did he do?”

But they were already out the door.