The problem is locating them. I’ll need help. I can’t go to the police and ask for assistance. They’ll ask too many questions and might link me as an accessory to those murders. I have to find a stranger willing to help me.
This part of my plan frightens me. There are too many elements that can go wrong. I think I should ask a woman for help, but I worry I might scare her. I don’t want to ask another man for help . . . What if he’s no different than the man running my life now?
What if they call the police?
Twenty minutes into the job, Liam calls me an idiot and sends me out to the truck for the tools I left behind.
Time to go.
My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest.
At the truck I tear off my work shirt with shaking hands and shove it under the seat, so he won’t know I changed. I pause, wanting to disable the truck somehow. I’ve read it’s possible but don’t know how to do it.
I quietly close the truck door and run.
I head toward the busy street, passing three other homes on this road. I feel as if eyes watch me from every window. I know people have cameras outside their homes, but I doubt he would knock on doors to ask to see footage. When I reach the main road, I turn and jog north, scanning the store signs ahead. I see a 7-Eleven, but it’s too soon to stop.
I want to buy a hat and maybe shave my beard. But I need to put more distance between me and him. I keep running and my chest starts to hurt. I never run at home, and he keeps me very thin, so I know I’ll need breaks. I pass two mothers with strollers. They are busy chatting and don’t even look at me. A truck waits to turn out of a parking lot and waves me across in front of him.
I feel as if I’m under a spotlight, and being on my own seems foreign.
I’ve worked enough electrical jobs to know how to act in public, but I have the sensation of a big target on my back. As if something I’m doing is completely wrong and making me stand out to everyone. I know jogging in jeans isn’t normal, but I don’t think it’s too bad.
Is it?
I cut through a parking lot and run behind a long line of stores. I feel a million times more comfortable in the shade and away from so many eyes. I pass two guys lounging behind a building, smoking cigarettes. They watch me run by.
“What’d you steal, man?” one of them yells.
“I’m late,” I shout back.
“Yeah, right.” They both laugh.
My anxiety doubles, and I struggle to breathe. What if he stops here and asks them if they’ve seen someone like me?
I should move to the other side of the busy street.
I run through a narrow alley and stop behind some bushes so I can study the road. There is a crosswalk at a light just ahead. I’ll have to use it. The street is too busy for me to cross without stopping the traffic first.
But I can’t stand at the crosswalk in view of every passing car while I wait for the light to change. One of those vehicles might be him. I crouch behind the bushes, panting hard, trying to catch my breath. I spot a woman in shorts jogging along the busy road and pray for her to hit the button to use the crosswalk.
She doesn’t.
I can’t wait much longer for someone to come along and do it. I eye a bush closer to the crosswalk. It’s thin and not a great place to hide, but it’s better than nothing. I jog several yards to the bush and then check the traffic, looking for his truck. An oncoming white truck makes my throat close, and I crouch lower. I clutch my head in my hands, panic speeding through my chest and head. But as it draws nearer, I see it’s not his. The relief hits my gut like a punch, and I’m frozen in place.
I can’t stop. I need to keep moving.
I scan the traffic and then dart to push the button and return to my hiding spot. A full minute passes before the traffic stops. Two more white trucks passed, neither of the right make, but they still sent jolts through my nerves. When the traffic is fully stopped, I check for white trucks and then start to jog across the road.
It’s so wide, and I feel as if every waiting driver is studying me, wondering what is wrong with me.
I keep going so I can run behind the businesses on this side of the street. I pass dumpsters and more employees taking cigarette breaks behind their stores. This time I’m ignored. I continue for twenty minutes, alternating between walking and jogging. I have no stamina. I can’t go much longer without a break. I spot a store that boasts of selling everything for a dollar and cautiously walk around to its front, looking for the white truck. Three cars are parked in front of it. The store looks quiet.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and gather my strength.
I’m terrified to go inside.
But I do it.
Indoors there is one teenager at a check stand. I don’t see any customers, and he’s staring at his phone, swiping his thumb across the screen. He looks up. “Welcome in,” he says in a monotone, and goes back to his phone, clearly not caring whether I’m there. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding as I walk farther into the store, scanning the signs above the aisles.
I wander for a couple of minutes, avoiding the few customers in the store. I find a pack of three razors and a small pair of scissors, knowing I need to cut the beard before I can shave it. I also find a tan baseball cap. I’m annoyed that it’s three dollars, not one dollar. I go to pay, and the teenager barely acknowledges me. I hate to part with a few dollars, but it has to be done.
“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask.
Without speaking or looking at me, he points at a back corner of the store.
In the restroom I quickly cut the bulk of my beard. I don’t like my hair. It’s long, past my shoulders. I always tie it back with a string to keep it out of my face when I’m working. I consider cutting it but decide to leave it as it is to save time. Using the perfumy soap from the restroom dispenser, I shave.
My hand shakes, but I get it all off and rinse the hair down the drain. I study my face. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a beard. Liam has cut it and then shaved it occasionally in the past, saying I scare the customers. My cheeks are smooth and the touch of my fingers on my skin feels odd. I pull the tag off the hat and try unsuccessfully to maneuver my hair up under it. I give up, then I use the toilet and double-check that I’ve left the sink clean.
As I head to the exit, I see the teenager on his phone again. There is one gray-haired woman near the kitchen supplies, but no one else is in the store now. I scan the parking lot. No white truck.
I stop at the check stand, and the teenager does a double take.
“You shaved.”
I guess he did look at me after all. “Yeah, it was itchy. Can you look something up on your phone for me?” I’d pondered how to find my parents. I knew there was a world of information available through phones, but I’d never used one myself. I’d only watched.
The teenager frowned. “Where’s yours?”
“Being repaired.”
“What do you need?”
I give him a name.
“Like look up his phone number?”
A phone number won’t help me; I don’t have a phone. “How about an address?”
“In Bend?”
“Yes.” I mentally cross my fingers.
He taps on his phone for a minute and then shows me the screen.
“That’s current?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Hard to say.” He scrolls the screen a bit. “No other addresses are listed, so most likely.”
My family is still here.
“You did that so fast.”
“You can easily find addresses if you know the name and city.”
I’m swamped with a paralyzing need to see them. “Do you sell maps?”
The teenager scratches his head. “Like a paper map? One of those folded things? No one uses those.”
I know the address but have no idea how to get there.
“Hang on.” The teen taps on his phone a few times and then shows me the screen again.
It’s a map with a red dot and the address. It means nothing to me. I have no idea where that is. I heavily exhale and run a hand across my mouth. I don’t know what to do.
He sighs and then touches the screen again. A blue line suddenly marks the route. The same mapping tool Liam uses to locate the homes for our electrical work.
“Want me to print this for you?”
“Please.”