was our only chance. It was react or be killed. I grabbed Amanda’s arm and pulled.
“Come on!”
We sprinted down the stairs, bolting through the front door and into the cold night.
No time to think. Just run.
There was no sign of the man in black. I could still smell faint traces of mace, the scent of something burning. Then I felt Amanda pulling my arm.
“This way.”
She led me around the side of the house, past a shed and a locked storm cellar. We pushed our way through a row of trees in the backyard, branches ripping at my skin. Adrenaline flowed through my veins like a gas pump whose safety valve had been removed. I couldn’t tell if I was dragging Amanda or she was dragging me, but soon we were running alongside a dimly lit road, the sky black above us, trees a misty green.
We slowed down as we approached a four-way intersection, my chest tight, blood thumping in my temples. There were few cars on the road. We were out in the open, our only cover the darkness of night. Somewhere in the gloom were three men who wanted me dead. It would only be moments before one of them found us.
“There, look,” I said, pointing to a Ford crew cab paused at the red light. The truck’s chassis bobbed up and down as if on hydraulics. I took Amanda’s hand. We crouched down, slinking up alongside the flatbed. I peered into the side mirrors to see the driver, then stood up to get a better look. The driver wore a green trucker’s cap, a mullet spilling out from underneath. Country music was blasting over his speakers, his head bobbing rhythmically. I cringed. The only thing worse than being chased by three men who wanted you dead was listening to country music while doing it.
Looking around, I made sure there were no other witnesses.
“Come on,” I whispered to Amanda, gesturing to the flatbed. She looked at me incredulously.
“You can’t be serious.”
“They’ll be here any second now. Please, you have to trust me. We need to get out of here.”
Whether it was blind faith or the sheer terror of being caught, Amanda followed me around to the truck’s rear. Just as mullet head’s bobbing was at full force, I boosted Amanda up and over the bumper into the flatbed. The light turned green. I heard the tires squeal. The car started to move. Amanda’s head popped up, a frightened look in her eyes.
Just before the truck peeled off into the night, I grabbed hold of the rim and hurled myself over the top and into the flatbed. A tarp lay crumpled in a heap. Staying low to avoid the rearview mirror, I grabbed it and pulled it over us. The warble of guitar music leaked out the windows as we gasped for air. The tarp smelled like dirt, tiny crumbs falling over our bodies as they were shaken loose from the road.
I looked at Amanda, the air between us hot and soiled. She glared at me and shook her head. I said nothing. There was no point. Soon I’d explain everything. I owed her that much.
Off in the distance, the Ringer watched the truck drive off into the night before it disappeared around a bend in the road. There were few lights to illuminate the street, but thankfully the faint glow of the traffic signals gave off enough so that he could read and memorize the license plate.
He gently touched his finger to the gunshot wound, sending shockwaves of pain through his body. He probed the torn skin, pain knifing through his body. He closed his eyes, squinting hard, trying to block it out. He pictured Anne’s face in his mind and the pain subsided, warmth coating the wound like a soothing balm. He could feel her wet kisses on his cheek, their hands intertwined, her soft fingers, polished nails. The hurt was distant now, forgotten in the memories.
Pushing the wound again to the forefront and keeping Anne in the back as an anesthetic, the Ringer ran a finger along his chest and shoulder. There was no exit wound and the bullet hadn’t lodged in his flesh. The slug had likely just shattered a rib or two and ricocheted away.
He could feel blood soaking his clothes. There was nothing he could do but ignore it. Cold night air ripped through the hole in his jacket. The hole by his right breast pocket. The blood on his clothes. Soaking everything…
Then the Ringer froze.
No. Please, no.
His fingers trembling, the pain burning, the Ringer found the small pocket at his breast where he kept Anne’s photo. The only memory of his long-lost beloved Anne. The only remnant of her life. The only attachment he had to her except the memories that faded more and more every day.
Please, let it be safe.
He fumbled with the fabric, the pain worming its way through his mental roadblocks. Holding his breath he removed the picture, the traffic lights providing just enough illumination. What he saw shattered his heart and sealed Henry Parker’s fate.
His deal with Michael DiForio was forgotten. Henry Parker’s death was the only thing that mattered now.
Coating the fragile picture was a layer of slick blood. His blood. Anne’s face had disappeared somewhere beneath the congealed mass of red, her face punctured by a bullet hole. Delicately he tried to cleanse the picture, but the material merely crumbled in his fingers. And once again, the Ringer’s life had contributed to Anne’s death. From this point on, her face would remain intact only in his mind. But memory was far more fallible than a photo.
A guttural scream of rage escaped the Ringer’s lips as he pressed the remnants of the photo to his chest, his heart beating beneath it, blood seeping from his wound.
Anne left his world years ago. But to the Ringer, Henry Parker had just killed her all over again.
22
I don’t know how long we were in the back of the truck. Every second was gut-wrenching, the tension a suffocating blanket. Add to that potent mix the girl whose life I’d endangered, who would no doubt beat the living shit out of me as soon as we were safe, and the ride in the back of the flatbed felt similar to bodysurfing the seventh circle of hell. Country music notwithstanding, it was the worst two-or was it three, or four, or five?-hours of my life.
We made a few brief stops-traffic lights I assumed, since we always were moving within minutes. I thought about my backpack, still containing the tape recording from the Luis Guzman interview, that I’d left at Amanda’s house. When the driver, David Morris, according to the sloppily scrawled name on his toolbox, finally came to a complete stop, we waited what seemed like eons before daring to poke our heads out.
I eased the tarp up and saw a white neon sign hovering above us that read Ken’s Coffee Den. The C in Coffee had blown its bulb. Ken’s offee Den was good enough for me.
We had stopped at a rest area-who really knew where-but we were out of St. Louis. There was a small diner and a Mobil station. A busy highway ran parallel. The black night was slowly easing into the gray of early morning. Where were we?
“We’re clear,” I said to Amanda. “Let’s go.”
They were the first words I’d said to her in hours. She barely acknowledged me, but before I could move she’d leapt out of the truck and started walking across the parking lot. I jogged up to Amanda, praying she wouldn’t scream bloody murder before I could explain.
The first rays of sun began to peek out of the horizon, streaks of beautiful orange and gold melting the gray. I checked my watch. Another day had passed. It had been almost thirty-six hours since John Fredrickson had died. Thirty-six hours since my life had irrevocably changed. For a moment, I forgot everything. Forgot John Fredrickson, forgot that three people wanted me dead, forgot that I once had a life, a good life, which I might never see again. The beauty of the morning sky, the whispers of cool air, they took me far away. All I could think about was Amanda, the look in her eyes when I told her my real name and revealed my betrayal. This was my life now. And there was no turning back.
“Amanda, please.” I tried to grab her sleeve. She pulled away and kept walking. “Just let me explain.”
