On the road
The Mercedes-Benz was a sweet ride. But at a small-town strip mall two hours out of Detroit, by way of Ann Arbor on 127, Juba slipped out of it, popped the lock and the ignition of a dark blue Chevy Impala, sitting in the neon wash of a coffee shop, and drove away. Another hour, and he spotted a low creek, shrouded in bushes, and directed Jared, who’d been following him in the Benz, to pull off. It took some arranging, but once they’d removed the shotgun—a Remington 1100 Auto-Tactical—and the canvas sack containing $23,650 in small bills from the Mercedes, Juba sent it through the bushes and into the water. It sank low, until only the roof was showing. Nobody would notice it, at least not routinely.
They drove on in the Impala, and finally Jared said, “Man, I am almost dead.”
“All right. Small motel, you go in and rent a room, pay with cash. Make sure you know this license number so you don’t struggle.”
This proved within Jared’s range of abilities, and soon he was zzzzed out.
He woke at 4 in the afternoon, suddenly disconsolate. What would his parents say? God, he’d been such a disappointment to them. They’d given him everything, he’d given them nothing. Now his mother was battered by tears and pain, his formidable father was being bedeviled by FBI agents, black cars were parked all around the block.
But maybe his friends thought he was cool.
Someone knocked.
“Yeah.”
“Come on, time to go.”
“Let me grab a shower.”
“Hurry.”
He cleaned himself but climbed into stinking clothes.
“You drive,” said Juba, his eyes everywhere.
“I think we’re okay,” said Jared. “I signed with a false name.”
“Oh, what a clever boy,” said Juba. “He knows all the tricks.”
They drove on, staying off the interstates, which were patrolled by more vigilant Highway Patrolmen, confident that they could outsmart small-town cops. Soon enough, they came to a Kmart, mooring some other stores in a downscale strip mall. Juba pulled in.
“Okay,” he said. “You go in. Buy some underwear. Me too. Also buy me a heavy file—a carpenter’s file, no fingernail stuff. And a light jacket, any kind, size fifty-two. But, most important, you buy a disposable phone. You know how they work?”
“Yeah, you buy a card with minutes on it, she activates it at the register, and we’re all set.”
“Yes. Don’t buy anything unusual, like toothpaste and a toothbrush, along with underpants. We’ll buy that some other place.”
“Shall I wear my sunglasses?”
“No. It’s dark out. You don’t want to be noticed. Tell yourself: I am nobody.”
“I am nobody.”
He got out and entered the bright zone of the store. It was sparsely populated, every clerk a composition in disinterest, and he got his stuff together in a short time, stopped for some Milky Ways and some protein bars, and got through the line quickly.
But it was too much. The melancholia broke over him quickly. Sitting on a stool at the hot dog counter in the front of the store, he quickly activated his phone and dialed the number of a pal back in Grosse Pointe.
“Hello?”
“Jimmy, it’s Jar—”
“Holy Christ, man, what are you up to? The FBI has been here, and everything.”
“I can’t explain now. It’ll be okay. Look—real quick, just send my mom an email to Shareen at AOL-dot-com. Say you heard from me, I’m fine, I’ll be in touch in a bit. That’s all.”
“Where are you?”
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Okay, I’ll send the message.”
“Great. And thanks, man. When I get out of this, we’ll have a good laugh.”
“You got it.”
He rose, put the phone in a trash can. He went back to the store proper, got another one off the shelf, and bought it, feeling very Secret Agent Man. He’d be able to present an unopened plastic-sealed phone to Juba, who’d never know he’d made a call. What were the odds that the feds were intercepting his parents’ emails?
Are we going anywhere? Or are we just going away?”
Juba looked at his watch, pulled over to the edge of the highway.
“Okay, little boy,” he said. “I need to make contact. Phone?”
Juba took it, ripped it from its plastic packaging, which he threw out the window, scraped clear the code of the calling card, tapped it into the phone. He had fifteen minutes.
He dialed a number.
“Yes, I am fine. I need a new pickup. Tell them I am on U.S. Route 127, just past the border of Michigan. I will stay on 127. How much time will it take to intercept?”
He paused. A car passed, then a van.
“Okay. Yes, we are in a dark blue Impala. License: Michigan L11 245. Thank you.”
He turned to Jared.
“Okay, a town called Greenville, about three hours ahead. We will go to a shopping mall on the south side of town—Walmart, not Sears. We are looking for a van, a Chevy, tan, license 276 RC678. Can you remember that?”
“No.”
“276 RC678. Pay attention.”
“What state?”
“Ohio.”
“How did they know we’d be in Ohio?”
“They know everything. Now, get rid of that phone. Sink it in water.”
Jared did as he was told. The phone went into a stream he found about fifty yards in. It occurred to him that this would be a great time for Juba to dump him. Or, he could dump Juba. He could take off now, disappear for a day or so in the Ohio farm wilderness. Then he could turn himself in. The best criminal lawyer in Michigan, whom his dad would hire, would get him a deal. He’d snitch out Juba, and they’d drop whatever thought they had about putting him away for mashing Mrs. Potato Head.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d crossed the line. No matter how much he missed the easy pleasures of his old, meaningless life, he could never go back to it. He was jihadi now.
And, of course, Juba had not left.
About an hour further on, Juba, confident they were not under observation, ordered Jared to pull over. He reached into the Kmart bag, pulled out the plastic-wrapped file, and climbed into the backseat.
“Continue to drive. Eyes open, under the speed limit, nothing stupid.”
“Got it.”
Jared drove on, as one of the drearier sections of rural Ohio, its northwest corner, rolled by monotonously, but it wasn’t long until he heard some—well, what? Grinding? Sawing? Some kind of mechanistic sound. The rearview revealed nothing, but he managed a quick look-see on a smooth section of road and saw Juba, hunched over in concentration, his arm like a piston as it plunged ahead, was withdrawn, and plunged ahead again. In a few seconds, Jared realize what he was doing: shortening the shotgun stock.
Juba looked up.
“I cut it down. Easier to hide, and I can cover it with a jacket.”
Jared gulped. He did it again when the filing stopped, and he heard the weird thunk-thunk of Juba inserting more shells into the extended magazine of the shotgun.