Law enforcement was closing in and had somehow gotten wind of the vehicle he was currently driving. The license plates didn’t match with the Ford but he still didn’t want to take the chance when he saw the latest description of the BOLO on the digital freeway signs. He knew he had to steal another car—the last one he’d need. Hotwiring something older was the only way to take a vehicle without somebody reporting the time, place, and most likely, a physical attack. Getting off the interstate and crossing into Wisconsin on Highway 41, where there weren’t any tollbooths or digital freeway signs, had temporarily kept him out of sight. Nobody had his location on their radar, and if the cops checked the toll cameras, they wouldn’t find him.
That old Chevy pickup, rusted and dented, was the perfect choice and easy to hotwire. Max had found it along the curb in a dark, crime-ridden area of Milwaukee. Whoever owned it would likely be happy to see it gone. The Ford Focus was left unlocked nearby with the keys clearly visible in the ignition. It wouldn’t be there long. He was sure of that.
Max continued on until he spotted a run-down looking motel that faced the highway along a frontage road. He was still in Milwaukee County but within twenty-five miles of his destination.
Paying with cash for the fleabag motel room was the smart thing to do and left no paper trail. He glanced from left to right once he crossed the threshold of room number three. A double bed with a permanent indention in the center reminded him of a swayback horse. Two mismatched wooden chairs sat against the table in the corner of the room, and the broken cord for the blinds lay on the floor. One nightstand holding a lamp with a cracked base illuminated that area. Max craned his neck to look into the bathroom—it was as bad as the rest of the room.
He groaned his displeasure as he tossed his backpack on the table. Max pulled back the bedspread, bunched the pillows against the headboard, and clicked on the television. He flipped the channels back and forth between the local news stations and WGN—the Illinois news channel. He watched the late-night news that aired on a loop from an earlier broadcast. Neither station mentioned him by name or the description of the black Ford Focus he had been driving. They only mentioned the most recent killing—that young girl in the Matteson motel room—and that the assailant was still at large. Max pressed the power button, turned off the TV, and clicked off the bedside lamp. He would sleep soundly with the knowledge that nobody knew his whereabouts. They wouldn’t find him until he was ready to be found. He was calling the shots.