Monday, Aug 9

Woke this morning to the sound of my car exploding in the motel parking lot. Before the first scrap of blasted fender had struck the ground I

was on the floor, crouched on the far side of the bed, covering the door and window with the 9mm from under my pillow. It took less than a second for my admittedly weary mind to take over from my instincts and adjust to circumstances, shucking off the gray haze of sleep for the electric clarity of aderenaline alertness. It was the car, they finally tried for the car. Damn fools.

A slamming door and a shout from the lot told me that I wasn't the only one shaken from sleep by gelignite thunder. Grabbing the AK-47 from under the bed with my left hand, I rolled over the bed and darted to the cover of the wall beside the sliding glass door. Nudging open the heavy burlap curtain with the barrel of the '47, I peeked out at the spectacle in the lot. Taking the precaution of parking the Escort at the far side of the lot from my room had been wise, despite leaving an empty space in front of my door. A crowd was starting to form around the smoking rubble, and the attention directed in that direction would hopefully allow me to sneak off undetected.

By now, the lot was alive with smoke and confusion as my fellow guests scurried from their rooms in panicked disarray, unsure whether to flee, to hide, or to stand to the side and take in the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. In the brief instant I allowed myself to linger on the scene, one image stuck in my mind: a woman, loosely covered by a middle-aged bathrobe, looked down at the ground and screamed, the object of her horror the bodies of my two would-be assassins, smouldering masses of blood and flame, sprawled akimbo like charcoal marionettes. A halo of fire still encircled the head of the fat one. I couldn't see the shocked expressions that were assuredly flash-frozen onto their horrified faces, but I smiled with the knowledge that such expressions were certainly there, if there was anything at all left of the faces, of course. A woman, standing and screaming at the sudden sight of a mutilated corpse; it was an inescapable refrain to the life I'd been cast into. Her scream followed me as I let the curtain fall and bolted for the bathroom.

The bathroom window was small, about 1' by 2', but it was the only rear exit. I would never have taken a room that didn't have one. I grabbed the duffel bag from under the bed, quickly disassembled the rifle and stuffed it inside, stuffed the 9mm into my jeans, quickly policed the room for any revealing scraps - just empty cans and a half-eaten pizza, no problem - then squeezed the bag through the window and onto the soft ground outside. I had taken the precaution of removing the hinges from the window the previous night... they were designed to prevent the window from being opened more than just enough to provide a slight breeze. I'm thin, but thicker than the wind.

I remember once, in my other life, when several of the clerks had caught a rat in the storeroom. They had him trapped under one of the plastic crates that milk was delivered in. These were essentially cubes of cross-hatched plastic. The hatching on this particular case was tight, leaving openings no larger than a quarter. The rat was large, easily as big as a good-sized squirrel, but no sooner had he looked around his prison once and sized up the situation he was through one of those tiny holes and free. It was that fast. I thought about that as I squeezed through the window and dropped head first to the ground, catching myself with my hands and rolling to absorb the shock.

Of course, I hadn't been seen. This was primarily due to the distraction in the parking lot, but dumb luck did enter into it. Ordinarily I choose my layover sites with care, often passing several by, sometimes travelling hours out of my way to find one that meets my criteria: rooms with a solid, sheltered escape route, preferably cabins. Barring that, old fashioned single story no-tell motels are the best for this, particularly if located in the woods, or in a crowded city. However, last night I had been exhausted to the point of hallucination, running on adrenalin and precious little of that. To be that far gone is very, very dangerous. Too easy to mistake a shadow for a real threat, or, worse, a real threat for a trick of a mind on the verge of shutdown. Slapping myself to stay awake, I pulled into the first motel I could find. Luckily, it was ideal.

I have no idea how they were able to track me here. Perhaps they had been trailing me for hours before I pulled in, and I was too tired to notice. Scary. Even knowing what I do about their organization, it always surprises me how easily they manage to track me down, no matter how carefully I cover my tracks, no matter how far I fly. This wasn't the closest call, not by a long shot, but I worry that my luck will run out one of these days. Which is why I try to get to them first.

There was a steep embankment to climb, and a tall wooden fence to scale, but my two-and-a-half hours of sleep had left me refreshed enough and neither of them posed me much difficulty. On the other side of the fence a few sleepy cars zipped along route two, past burger joints and mini-malls. Soon a minor caravan of emergency vehicles would scream their way down the Sunday morning strip toward Sleepy Joe's Motel, Cable in every room, air-conditioned, vacancy. I shrugged aside a growing desire to descend to one of those glitzy steel-and-plastic burger havens and load up on breakfast muffins... that was an echo from my previous life, back when I had the luxury of poisoning myself any way I wanted to. No, my first duty was to put some distance between myself and the motel. Then I could think about breakfast.

I heard the first soft wailing of approaching sirens as I reached the far side of the street. A block up the road a side street led off into a residential neighborhood. I began to jog toward it, making the turn just as the red and blue lights of the first arriving cruiser became dimly visible, miles away up Route 2. Too far away for him to see me. I started down Drury Lane at a decent clip, swift enough to remove me from the vicinity in a decent time, slow enough not to arouse suspicion. A pair of joggers passed me, he shooting a vaguely contemptuous glance in my direction. This put me on edge... I make it a practice to look as nondescript as possible, the sort of person who never looks out of place, regardless of the situation, clothes conservative (jeans and a college sweatshirt today, chosen because they could be slept in without appearing overly rumpled the next day), attitude open without being overly friendly, stance humble without appearing downtrodden. I usually shave before I go to sleep, so that I will appear clean shaven in case I'm forced to make an early morning getaway. So why had I drawn the glare? Not a Princeton fan? A brief glance in a nearby puddle gave me the answer: my hair had partially retained the shape of my position while sleeping, clumps sticking in every direction. Wetting my fingers I smoothed it out as best I could, finally giving up when I could spare the time no longer.

The encounter was unfortunate. Now I could count on at least one couple that would be able to report seeing a "disshevelled" young man strolling in a direction that led away from the crime scene, and with police prodding they might be able to fill in a few more details. A comparison between their description and the motel clerk's description of me might put the police on my trail, and experience had taught me how dangerous that could be.

Still, there was something to be gained from the encounter: an insight, something that I had forgotten. People rarely go "out for a stroll" anymore, particularly this early in the morning. Joggers, however, are as common as flies at a shitnic, and often wake up earlier than the Farm Report. Slicking my hair back as best I could, I started to puff ahead at an easy gait, feigning an aura of slight exhaustion to allow myself the luxury of this slow pace. The stress of exercise would excuse my frazzled looks as far as any witnesses would be concerned. Besides which, the increased speed with which I would be able to travel would get me out of the area all the sooner, and that was alright by me.

I jogged a quick left down Drury Lane, hoping that I wasn't losing myself in some suburban cul-de-sac maze. I had made a brief effort to familiarize myself with the area via the street map section of the phone book, but my memorization hadn't proceeded betond the main route basics before the need for sleep dragged my eyes from the pages. Staying off the main routes was advisable, but so was leaving the area fast. It was a conundrum, yet one that would be solved for me, and fast.

I sennsed the cruiser before I saw it. Before I could reverse direction it turned a corner about two blocks in front of me and slowly drove my way. I kept my pace steady, eyes front, affecting nonchalance as best I could. As the cruiser passed me, it slowed, and I could feel the heat of the Cop Stare as he sized me up. I risked a glance in his direction, figuring that the average innocent jogger would be more likely to glance at a policeman than to avoid those searching eyes (though I didn't venture a wave). Instantly I realized my mistake. There was no mistaking the scowl of recognition that flashed across his face as he pounded his brakes. I didn't wait to find out. I was gone, as fast as my legs would carry me. Behind me I heard the cruiser's door slam. Knowing that bullets might well be next I dashed across someone's yard, putting their house between me and Officer Friendly's .45. I heard the cold slap of his shoes on the concreter sidewalk as he gave pursuit. Oddly enough, he never gave the order to "Freeze!" as I had assumed to be the proper procedure from countless cop shows on TV. Perhaps he didn't want to wake the neighbors.

I made a brisk run throug several backyards, dodging the usual accumulation of obstacles - rakes, toys, lawnmowers - and vaulting a few waist-high picket fences. Finally, however, I found myself stymied by a tall

wooden fence that was far too high to vault. I could have leapt up and pulled myself over but a nearby doghouse gave me a better idea. Fortuanately, the kennel's tenant was not at home, so I was able to leap onto its roof and from there make an easy vault over, making the six-foot drop easily and landing on clear ground with my knees bent to absorb the impact. Instead of running further, I pressed myself against the fence and waited.

Fortunately, my pursuer, who was frighteningly close behind me as it turned out, chose in the heat of the moment to follow in my tracks. By the time he was able to see over the fence he had already started his vault. There was an amusing look of shock on his face when hy hands shot up from beneath him, grabbing him by shoulder and thigh and using his momentum to hurl him to the ground. His reflexes were fast enough and his self-defense skills honed enough that he was able to brace himself for the landing. Nonetheless, the thud me made when he hit the ground sideways was not a pleasant sound. His gun flew from his right hand, sliding across the damp grass to stop several yards away. With a brief, half hearted roll he managed to raise himself to his knees, but I was ready with a side-kick to the face and he stayed down this time.

I took a brief moment to reconnoiter. As fortune would have it, we had leapt into the rear of a small elementary school, with the large brick building itself between us and the road. The school was boredered by tall fencing and woodland, and quite deserted, naturally enough on a Saturday. It was unlikely that anyone witnessed the conclusion of the chase, or would witness what would come next.

As luck would have it, the cop and I were nearly matched in build, and similar enough in facial features that my hastily-conceived plan should work well enough. Quickly dragging the unconscious policeman to a recess near the school's trash dumpster, I removed my jogging suit, replacing it with a slightly dusty police uniform. Brushing it off I was able to note that the fit was okay, pants slightly above shoeline. Alrighht, so I'm a nerd cop.

There was a pair of handcuffs affixed to a loop on his holster. A brief search located the keys, and shortly the cuffs were adorning my new prisoner's wrists. Akll without a sign of waking from him. Taking no chances, I constructed a makeshift gag from my sweatshirt and pants, not enogh to hold his voice for long but enough to keep him quiet until I returned.

I headed back the way I had come, through backyards and over fences, theorizing that anyone who observed the pursuit would be curious as to its denouement. The sight of a solitary cop, similar to the one they had just seen, returning alone and dejected to his patrol car, would answer their unspoken questions, or so I hoped.

I made my way back to the patrol car without incident. As I got into the car I saw a slightly-parted curtain in a house across the street fall shut. Unable to tell if this signified disinterest or a witness rushing excitedly to the phone (or even a cat that had been looking for birds with no interest in my doings whatsoever), I tried to fight off panic and keep my head. If I was safe I had to keep cool to stay that way... if the game was up a panicked flight would probably get me killed.

The keys were in the ignition still, as I had expected. I started it up and drove slowly up the street, looking from side to side as if hunting my suspect but actually keeping an eye out for suspicious neighbors. I was able to find the side road that led to the school easily enough, and pulled around back to the trash dumpster. I found my prisoner awake and attempting to remove his gag by rubbing against the rough bricks behind him. I hadn't been gone long and still he hads made substantial progress. He stopped as he saw me arrive, a look of apprehension appearing in his eyes. His fear was natural, perhaps, given his situation, but it made me uneasy nonetheless. I did not like to appear in the role of the opressor, not one little bit.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. I just need to borrow your car for a few hours. And, unfortunately, things being as they are, I'm afraid that means that I have to borrow you as well."

He didn't appear very reassured. Worse than ever, in point of fact. I ignored his distress and unlocked the trunk. Removing a few objects into the dumpster gave me enough room, and I was able to jury-rig a few airholes with a crowbar. Not very comfortable, but I felt confident that he wouldn't die. "Hope you're not claustrophobic," I said as I shut the trunk on his struggling body.