“Two minutes left,” said Brooke. “Search for … ‘Dillon murder Facebook.’”
“Why?” I asked, though I was already typing. The results loaded, and Brooke took the mouse from my hand and started scrolling.
“Because if the killer didn’t follow us to Dillon,” she said, “but our presence in Dillon precipitated the kill, then the only explanation that makes sense is that the killer was already in town before we got there, lying low. We can’t find evidence of a similar crime because the Withered we’re looking for hasn’t killed anyone in ages.”
“So what are we going to find on Facebook?”
“That,” said Brooke, and she clicked on a link. Corey Diamond—Derek’s friend from the drive-in—had updated his status just after midnight: It begins.
“No way,” I said.
“We have to go back to Dillon,” said Brooke. “We missed a Withered.”
I nodded slowly, turning to look her in the eyes. “Who are you?”
“Who do you think?” she said, and her eyes showed a sign of hurt. “I’m Brooke.”
14
We didn’t want to be followed again, which meant we didn’t want any friendly drivers who could look at a photo and say, “Yeah, I remember giving them a ride.” Even if they didn’t remember us, they’d remember the dog.
I thought again about getting rid of Boy Dog, just leaving him here or, even better, out in the countryside. He was too recognizable, and that made him a huge liability. But I had rules, and they wouldn’t let me hurt an animal, even by neglect. Those rules kept me who I was. If I lost Boy Dog I lost my soul, so he came along.
We couldn’t steal a car, either, for obvious reasons. That would get us more attention instead of less. So we sat in the shade of the truck-stop wall and watched the vehicles as they came in, waiting for just the right one. When it came we gathered our bags of newly washed clothes and got ready to run. An old pickup with a couch in the bed, flipped on its back and tied down with ropes and a tarp. It had come from the direction of the city, which meant it was headed out of the city. We watched the driver carefully; he topped off his tank, left the truck by the pump, and went inside the building, probably to use the restroom. We ran across the open lot, hefted Boy Dog into the bed beside the couch, and climbed in after him, hiding under the tarp as best we could. If the driver saw us, he’d raise a stink and maybe even call the police; if he didn’t, he’d drive us away, and we’d be free.
We waited.
I was pressed almost chest to chest with Brooke, Boy Dog resting on top of us like a hundred-pound stuffed animal. He panted heavily, shifting to find a more comfortable spot, but he didn’t bark. Brooke raised her hand and let him lick it, whispering shhhh, almost silently. I checked our feet again, making sure they were tucked inside of the tarp, and then closed my eyes and listened. The highway roared like the ocean. A brake squealed. An engine growled to life and drove away. A mother called to a child: “Hold my hand, Noah, there are cars here!”
Pressure on my face: lips; the barest hint of a kiss on the side of my nose. I opened my eyes and saw Brooke staring back, her eyes a wet reflection in the half-light under the tarp.
“Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself.”
I have never considered that a comforting excuse.
I closed my eyes again and listened as the wind whipped at the edges of the tarp, as another engine moved across the lot, as a pair of heavy footsteps clomped on the concrete. Brooke’s body went tense, and I knew she’d heard it too.
“Shhhh,” she whispered, and Boy Dog licked her hand.
The door clicked open. The truck jostled, rolling slightly to the side as the driver climbed in. I looked at Brooke. “Here we go.”
“Where?”
The engine started with a violent stutter, and the truck began to move.
“Doesn’t matter where,” I said. “It won’t be too far before a truck this old needs to refuel, so we’ll just wait ’til he stops, see if we can climb out in secret, and then start hitchhiking again, working our way back to Dillon. I don’t know how the FBI is tailing us, but if they can’t make the leap from Dallas to whatever random place we end up in, we might be able to lose them.”
“And then just pick them up again in Dillon,” said Brooke. “They’re bound to investigate this murder.”
“Maybe,” I said. It was getting hard to hear as we pulled onto the highway and wind shook the tarp like a drum. “But it’s like you said: they know it wasn’t us, because we were in Dallas when it happened.”
She flashed a wry smile. “Doesn’t mean they won’t be looking into it. We don’t know what we’re going to find there.”