Chapter Six

Sunday, October 15, 10:05 a.m.

Holding tightly to Jamie’s bag, which was filled once again with the $740,000, Free ventured forth from the motel for breakfast. Before she left, she spent a long time deciding what to do with the drugs. If she left them in the room, the cleaning lady might find them. And the Stay-A-While’s locks looked like they wouldn’t thwart a bobby pin – let alone someone with a heavy boot. Although chances were slim that someone would break in during her absence, Free now knew from personal experience that the worst could and did happen. But if she took the drugs with her, she would be putting herself in danger if someone caught her with them. No one would believe her if she said they weren’t hers. And there were enough of them to add up to years in jail. Finally, she had decided to get rid of them by flushing them in batches down the toilet.

As Free walked down the main street, which doubled as the highway, drafts from passing trucks blew the too-large borrowed muumuu from one side to the other. Even though she was wearing the damp panties she had washed out in the sink and squeezed dry, Free felt naked as the wind pressed the dress against her and then tugged it away. Every step made the cuts on her feet sting and her bruised legs ache.

It felt dangerous to be carrying the money, as if any minute someone might snatch the bag away. Free also realized that even the act of taking the money with her, the fact that she was worried about it, meant that she had crossed a line and was beginning to think of it as belonging to her.

There weren’t very many other candidates. Jamie was dead. And this guy Don he had talked about probably thought the money was nothing more than a pile of ashes.

Even if she wanted to give the money back, how would she go about doing it? She couldn’t exactly run an ad in the Oregonian: “Found. $740,000 in used hundred-dollar bills. To claim, please describe dead man who once owned it.”

Free tightened her grip on the straps of the bag. If she went to the police now, she would be back to where she had been the day before - nineteen, alone and with a baby in her belly. And that money would just end up moldering in some government evidence locker. Or - and it seemed quite possible - some cop might just keep it all for himself. Who wouldn’t be tempted when faced with a stack of used, untraceable hundred-dollar bills?

But what if she kept it and this Don guy came looking for it? Then again, how would they ever trace the money from Jamie to a woman he had never known and who didn’t even officially exist any more? They could no more trace the money forward from Jamie’s possession than she could trace it backward to where it really belonged.

The town of Clark City was small, barely qualifying for the word town. It must have been named during a more optimistic time. In addition to the Stay-A-While Motor Inn, there were two hotels (one a generic Best Western, the other a more run-down and mom-and-pop affair), two gas stations, a grocery store, a hardware/feed store and five restaurants. Free didn’t think she could take the cheerful plastic decor and plastic food of McDonalds. The Dairy Queen and the In-And-Out Burger (a tiny A-frame shack) were both closed. One of the remaining restaurants was really a tavern, a weather-beaten windowless structure that probably served just enough food to keep its liquor license. Free opted for The Roost, which had a fading flapping banner that read, “Breakfast Served All Day.”

Once inside, she had to fight back a moment of panic. The place was crawling with cops in a variety of uniforms. Taking a deep breath, Free reasoned with herself. Of course there were a lot of cops here. Fourteen people were dead, and dozens more had been injured. Blame must be assigned. Still, she couldn’t help feeling nervous, as if they might sense she was carrying nearly a million dollars of drug money. She was glad she had flushed the drugs away. She had a sudden childhood memory of yelling out “I smell bacon!” from the back seat of their Volkswagen bus as Bob drove past a police car hidden in an alley.

A new thought occurred to her. What if this Don person were here, trying to figure out where his money had gone to? Her gaze swept over the restaurant again, but she didn’t see anyone who looked like a dealer, who in Free’s experience always used as well as dealt. No, all the guys in the restaurant seemed clean-cut and uniformed. Free realized she was still rooted to the ground by the gumball machine in the entryway. Everyone did seem to have noticed her, something that had happened to her all of her life as she moved from place to place, showed up at each new school dressed in thrift store outfits, was picked up by her dad with his long hair and love beads. Maybe she should leave. Or maybe she should walk up to one of these cops right now and hand over the gym bag. Even as she told herself she was seriously considering the idea, she found her feet walking past the full tables. Taking a seat at the counter, Free put the bag on the floor and planted her feet squarely on top.

When the harried waitress finally stopped to take her order, Free asked for French toast, coffee and an orange juice, then called the woman back to add a glass of milk. She had to remember that she was eating for two now.

As she ate Free tried to weigh her options. An hour ago, she had decided to take the money and start a new life. But now as she tried to picture this new life, to see exactly what she would do, where she would go, who she would be - Free failed. The only thing she knew was that she couldn’t go back to Medford, back to her parents and her job at the Petorium and Billy pleading with her to take him back.

The sensible thing, Free supposed, would be to fly to a different city in a far-away state, some place where this Don guy would never find her. The idea scared her. The only time she had been on a plane was at the Jackson County Fair, when her parents paid a man to take her and Moon up above the fairgrounds for a five minute ride that cost a penny a pound. Free didn’t remember how old she had been, just that the two of them together hadn’t cost more than a dollar.

The only big city Free had been to before was Portland. She had gone there with her family a couple of times when she was a kid. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad choice, at least not to start. It was a big enough city to get lost in, but not so big she couldn’t find her way around.

Free popped the last bit of French toast in her mouth. It was time to leave both the restaurant and this town, before anyone came sniffing around. The only problem was she no longer had wheels.

The tab came to $4.70. “Keep the change,” Free said, pressing a twenty dollar bill into the hand of the waitress. Free was halfway to the door when she heard the other woman gasp when she realized it wasn’t a five. Maybe she could get used to this.

As Free walked back to the motel, she passed a ramshackle apartment complex, tiny one-story apartments strung together like beads on a string. An old blue Chevette was parked on the street in front, with a sign propped on the dash. “For Sale by Owner. Ask at Apt. 6A. $500 OBO.”

She circled around the car, feeling a momentary pang for her lost Impala, the low rumble of its motor, the amazingly intact green upholstery. Even the slightly musty smell of the interior was associated in her mind with freedom. Having a car meant she could go where she wanted - and take whoever she wanted along with her.

Five hundred bucks wasn’t much to pay to have that freedom back. She picked her way to Apt. 6 through the dozens of broken toys that littered the shared yard, like colorful debris washed up by the tide. On the mat lay a red plastic fire engine missing its front wheel.

A scrawny woman with burnt-out eyes answered the door. Behind her, five children who all looked to be under the age of six were sitting in front of the TV watching Scooby-Do. The woman didn’t say anything, just looked Free up and down.

“I’m interested in buying your car.”

“You want to take it for a drive?” Free nodded. “I’ll come with.” Not even turning her head, she let out a yell that made Free jump. “Kids - I’m going out for a minute! Don’t let me catch you fighting when I get back!”

In her dirty pink plastic sandals, the woman shuffled over to the car. She pulled a key chain with a clear red heart from the pocket of her cutoffs.

“Here ya go.” The woman handed over the keys then pulled open the passenger door, accompanied by screeching metal. Free got in the driver’s seat. Maybe it had been the sound of metal on metal, but her palms were starting to sweat. She groped behind the seat, but the car didn’t seem to have any seat belts. Feeling off balance, Free fumbled the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it.

The skin on her face felt tight, and her scalp prickled. The air was heavy. It didn’t seem to contain enough oxygen. Breathing through her mouth, Free finally managed to turn the key. Her hands were trembling and she felt like she was choking. Her chest and belly hurt. Was she going to pass out? Was something wrong with the baby? Was she having a heart attack? A miscarriage?

“Aren’t you going to drive it?” The woman’s nasal voice pulled Free back a little bit. But then she had a sudden flash of Lydia, the last woman who had sat beside her in a car.

The woman repeated the question, and the word “drive” caused Free to feel even worse. She was passing out, she was sure of it. She barely had the strength to turn off the key. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”

Unexpectedly, the woman patted her on the shoulder. “That’s all right. It needs a new head gasket. I’m not supposed to say that, but it does.”

Free threw a “thank you” over her shoulder as she opened the door. She left the keys dangling in the ignition.