I make a hurried trip to my apartment to collect some things, terrified that the cops will be waiting. Convinced the whole time I am there that a SWAT team is about to bust down the door. They don’t. Thanks to Cam’s warning I think I have got in before the warrant for my arrest has been issued.
I throw a few things into a backpack. Toothbrush. A little make-up, shampoo, moisturiser, spare underwear and my beat-em-up umbrella. After a few moment’s thought I toss in some latex gloves that I use when I touch up my roots.
Now I’m on the run. A criminal, a fugitive, yet I have done nothing wrong.
I use the fire escape to exit the building, not the elevator.
As I am walking quickly away down a side street my phone rings. No Caller ID. I debate whether or not to answer it. It might be the police.
Curiosity wins over caution and I put it to my ear.
“Yes?”
“It’s Ethan,” he says.
I am so not expecting this that I can’t for a moment work out who Ethan is. Ethan Arbuckle.
“I thought you were dead!” I say when the cogs in my brain finally click over. “I thought you disappeared like my dad.”
“I disappeared, but not like your dad,” he says. “I vanished myself before they could make me vanish. Like they’re going to make you vanish.”
I go cold all over.
“They wouldn’t dare,” I say.
“They’ll find a way,” he says. “You’re making too much noise. It might be too much if you simply disappeared off the face of the earth like your father. But they’ll find some way to get rid of you.”
“They’re trying to claim that I take drugs,” I say. “That I sell them. But I don’t.”
“Did you take a drug test?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “And I failed.”
“That’s the way they work,” he says.
“I’m going to get a lawyer,” I say. “I’m going to get another blood test done and have this one independently analysed. That way I can prove I’m being framed.”
“You’ll fail that one too,” he says.
“I won’t,” I say. “I don’t do drugs.”
“That doesn’t even figure into it,” he says. “You still haven’t worked out who you’re dealing with, have you?”
Clearly not.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are you safe?”
“As safe as I can be,” he says. “I don’t know what they’re up to, except that it must be something major, to go to all this trouble. It’s a biggie. But I’m keeping right out of it. I’ve lost everything except my life. I’m going to try and hang on to that for a little while longer.”
“How can I contact you?” I ask. “If I have any questions for you.”
“You can’t,” he says and is gone.
I swallow my spit. It tastes bitter. I think on what Ethan just said.
There is no way that I failed a drug test. That means the test was doctored. Faked. Adulterated. Whatever they call it. I can’t even imagine who would have the power to alter the results of my blood test. That’s high up CIA crap or something like it.
But even worse is the planted drugs in my apartment. Who would do that? Who could do that?
Whatever is going on, Ethan is right. The police are not going to be able to help. I don’t even think they are involved. I think they are just pawns in someone else’s game.
If I give myself up, I think I am going to end up in jail for a very long time. What that would do to my mom, I can’t imagine.
And it won’t be very nice for me either.
There are times in your life when you have to make a decision. To take one path or another. To stand up or lie down.
In my case the decision is easy. If I entrust my fate to the legal system, I know how it will turn out. And it won’t be pretty.
I have to get angry, to get active. To go down fighting if necessary.
And I still have one good lead.
I ring Jackson. I need to borrow his car again.
“What for?” he asks.
“I don’t want to tell you,” I say.
“I think you should,” he says.
In the background I can hear what sounds like shooting.
“Where are you?” I ask.
Turns out he’s in his apartment playing video games. So much for his end-of-year exams. He’s about to get a new high score on Call of Duty something.
“I’m doing some investigating,” I say at last, and with great reluctance.
“About your father?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“My car is still in the shop, getting its fuel line fixed,” he says.
“Okay, never mind,” I say. “I’ll rent one.”
“I’m coming with you,” he says. “Look what happened last time I let you go off on your own.”
I hesitate. He’s right. The last time did not end well.
“I’ll meet you at the Starbucks on Main,” I say. “Make sure nobody follows you.”
He laughs. I don’t think he is taking this seriously. Not yet.
Jackson is not Cam. He’s not tough, strong, or a man of action. But he’s willing and he’s always up for an adventure.
I feel a bit bad. But I can’t do this alone and I am not above using his affection for my own selfish purposes.
I’m not a very nice person sometimes.
I wait in a shop across from Starbucks and watch Jackson arrive, making sure he is alone and is not being followed. I feel awful doing it, but I am quickly learning – ‘trust no one’.
Only when he walks back out, looking confused, do I reveal myself and wave him over.
“What was all that about?” he asks.
“Sorry if I offended you,” I say. “I had to be sure you weren’t followed or anything.”
“Offend me? I’m a robot, I am incapable of human emotions,” he says.
“You’re not a robot, you’re a weirdo,” I say.
We catch a cab to a local rental company. I worry as I hand over my driver’s licence that some alarm will go off. That somehow the arrest warrant will have been circulated to all rental car agencies, but my booking goes through without a problem.
There is a wide range of cars, but I choose a Chevy Camaro SS. Jackson is impressed. He takes selfies of him and me standing by the car, sitting in the car, standing behind the car. Jackson and his selfies. Sigh.
The car is more powerful than I really feel comfortable in, and it’s expensive, but it’s fast. I want that speed in case we need a quick getaway, although the idea of me and Jackson in a car chase with some gun-toting bad guys hollerin’ and tootin’ is almost comical.
Still, a gal’s gotta be prepared.
Stamp lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, almost a six-hour drive, skirting along the Mexican border. I google Scottsdale while Jackson takes a turn driving.
Jackson is loving every minute of this, I can tell. The big, powerful car, off on some kind of secret mission, and getting to spend time alone with me. I haven’t yet told him that I am a fugitive, an outlaw with a bounty on my head. (Or at least a person with an outstanding arrest warrant, which doesn’t sound nearly so glamorous.) I wonder what he will think when he finds out.
I turn the radio on as we leave San Diego, but he reaches out a hand and flicks it off.
“I want to listen to the engine,” he says.
I watch him as he drives, safely, keeping within speed limits, but taking off from traffic lights as if they are the starter flag at the Indy 500. I think he likes the surge of power; the low bass throb of the V8 engine; the feeling of flying as all other traffic is left idling in our wake.
Or maybe he thinks it will impress me. It doesn’t.
Well maybe a little.
According to Mr Google, Scottsdale is the West’s Most Western Town, whatever that means. It is famous for its golf courses, art galleries, some historic (!) buildings, and the largest indoor shooting range in the country.
I wonder what attracted Johan Stamp to Scottsdale, and decide that he is probably not into golf, art or historic buildings.
Jackson drives some. We talk some. I sleep some.
The scenery is mainly desert. This part of the country is like some kind of no man’s land between the US and Mexico. Vast stretches of scrubby flat land dotted with the many-branched shapes of Joshua trees.
The day is hot, and heat shimmers off the road in front of us. The Camaro has a gauge showing the outside temperature and it quickly climbs into the forties, although inside the car it remains icy cool thanks to an efficient (and quiet) air conditioner.
We stop at a McDonald’s in some small town, breaking into a sweat even on the ten paces from the car to the door of the restaurant. I eat Big Macs with fries. This is food I would not normally allow myself to eat, but these are not normal days. I’ll worry about my weight after this is all over.
At a tourist store next door Jackson buys a tacky ten-gallon hat with a yellow badge on the front that says Yuma, the name of the town.
When we come out of the store he tosses the car keys to me.
“Your turn,” he says.
“But you’re doing such a good job,” I say.
“But you’re missing all the fun,” he says.
So I drive, while Jackson plays old Broadway tunes on his harmonica. It is a fun car to drive. I pull up alongside two good ole boys in a big Ford pickup with knobby tyres and flames painted down the side.
“Go on,” Jackson says.
I don’t look at them, I just wait until I can feel their eyes on me, then I put the pedal to the metal. The Camaro kicks forward like a rocket sled on rails and in my mirror the Ford rapidly shrinks to a toy, then a dot, then nothing.
“You enjoyed that,” Jackson says, and starts playing Dixie on his mouth organ.
“If I’m being honest?” I laugh. “Yup.”
“So, we’re being honest now, are we?” he says.
I freeze. “What do you mean?” I ask as casually as I can.
“Nothing,” he says. “I’d just prefer it if we didn’t keep things from each other.”
“Things like what?” I ask.
“I dunno,” he says. “Arrest warrants, stuff like that.”
“You knew?”
“It was on the news, I saw it on the TV at Starbucks,” he says.
“But you didn’t say anything,” I say.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” he says. “I still came, didn’t I?”
“But now you’re aiding and abetting a fugitive,” I say.
“Only if I knew that you were a fugitive,” he says.
“But you do know, you saw it on the TV at Starbucks,” I say.
“What TV?” he asks. “What Starbucks?”
“I’m sorry,” I say
“For what?”
“For dragging you into this. For keeping secrets from you. It’s not fair. I mean you’ve always been completely honest with me.”
He looks at me and gives me an odd smile.
I pride myself on being able to read people. To see into their hearts and souls. Or at least to be able to sense the important stuff.
So it comes as a complete shock to me, for more reasons than one, to find out that Jackson is gay.
Who knew? Not me!
Admittedly he does a good job of hiding it. Fifteen hundred miles away from his Southern Baptist bible-bashing parents and he is still terrified that they will find out. A shame he can’t be honest with them, but I guess we all have our secrets.
Turns out D’Tox and Jackson are more than just mates.
Were more than just mates. They just broke up.
Again. Who knew? My best friend on the West Coast has been going out with his weirdo, tattooed, paranoid, Chinese boyfriend all year and I had no idea until after it was all over. I feel stupid.
Thinking back, a lot of things start to click into place.
But it changes my whole perspective of Jackson. He hasn’t been hitting on me at all. That was all just in my mind. He’s just a really nice guy.
Turns out he just likes me for me.
I tell Jackson everything. I feel we should be completely honest with each other now. And now that I know he is not interested in me, I feel safe. I open up. I tell him about Mom and Katz and my feelings for Cam.
I tell him all I know about my father’s disappearance, the Arbuckles, the drug test and everything else. We talk about all sorts of things. It is quite cathartic for me, and I think for him too. In the aftermath of his breakup, I think this road trip is a kind of a release for him. Free therapy. I find myself enjoying myself. Talking about my fears, sharing them, softens them.
Stamp lives on a dry-looking street at the end of a cul-de-sac. Beyond the street is desert, flat and barren, covered in grey-green scrub, dotted with cacti and littered with stones. It is the desert of a thousand western movies and I start to see why they call it the most western town of the west. If a bunch of cowboys came a hootin’ and a hollerin’ out of the distance on horseback brandishing six-shooters I would not blink an eye.
On the road outside Stamp’s house is a fire hydrant, yellow with a green hat. It looks like a little cartoon fireman. The house itself is a single level, red brick and tile that blends into the desert as if it had been camouflaged. It is surrounded by a high metal fence, the top of which glints in the sun. I think it is razor wire.
There are no trees here. No cover. Nothing to hide behind. I start to question the wisdom of coming here in a bright red sports car.
“Keep going,” I say as Jackson slows at the corner. He understands and glides smoothly by.
We are well clear of Stamp’s house when I get Jackson to pull over. A taxi passes us, and on impulse I twist around in my seat to watch it. It turns into Stamp’s road and pulls up in front of his house. The front door of the house opens and a man in camo gear comes out. He unlocks a gate in the fence and locks it again behind him. We are too far away to make out faces, but it’s a good bet that it’s Stamp. If I was smarter I would have brought some binoculars.
We let the taxi pass us and get well down the street before we pull out and follow it.
We try not to get too close and to keep a couple of cars in between us. Real spy stuff.
The taxi turns onto the freeway. We choose a different lane, and keep behind and to the left of him, in his blind spot. When they take the airport turn-off we hang well back.
“Drop me here,” I say as we pull up at the passenger drop-off. “I’ll call you when I’m ready for pickup.”
Feeling like a super-secret agent I follow Stamp up to the departures area.
Like most airports around the world the terminal is a long hall. The floor is carpeted with what I at first think looks like chocolate ripple ice cream, although a closer look reveals it is a circular pattern with chocolate and vanilla coloured airplanes. Classy.
Coffee bars, bookshops and florist stalls line the walls. Large blue signs suspended from the ceiling announce the various gates.
Stamp checks in at one of the electronic terminals. I pretend to do the same at one opposite, where I can see his screen.
He is flying to New York.
The machine spits out a boarding pass and he goes to wait for his flight at a café. I follow. I order a latte and find a table where I can keep an eye on him, although I am not sure if I am just wasting my time. Unless he is meeting someone here he is simply waiting for a flight.
I try the latte and decide that one sip is enough. Ugh. I let it get cold. Note to self: In airport cafés always order tea. They can’t get that wrong.
I have a good view of Stamp, although he is facing away from me, so can’t see me. He has a military-style haircut. But he isn’t ex-military. I’d put money on it. He doesn’t have the look.
This guy is a wannabe. A flabby, Rambo-loving, pretend soldier. The kind who thinks that guns make you tough. Someone like Cam would eat him alive.
I wonder what Cam is doing. Protecting some other teenage girl, probably. I wonder if she will fall for him the way I did.
Probably.
I take a few photos of Stamp with my phone, while pretending to send messages. I would really like to get a photo of his face, but he is facing away from me. I think on this for a moment or two then switch my phone camera onto video mode.
I stand, putting the phone to my ear and holding an imaginary conversation with an imaginary friend as the camera records everything. I make my way out through the tables, trying to hold the phone as steady as possible without looking unnatural.
I walk past Stamp’s table, making sure that my ear, and the phone that is glued to it, are aimed directly at him for as long as possible. I turn towards the main doors of the terminal, just in time to see a woman with a single small cabin bag on an airport trolley, turn suddenly into the path of an elderly tourist in a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses and a USS Arizona cap.
Why she is using a trolley when the cabin bag clearly has its own wheels, is beyond me. Why she walks one way, then without looking, suddenly turns the trolley in a new direction is even further beyond me, and obviously a great surprise to the tourist who suddenly finds a metal trolley in his path. He is in mid-stride, and tries to avoid the trolley, but his foot comes down on the end of it. The trolley rolls away, his foot slides out from under him.
He goes down in a heap.
The woman rolls her eyes as if it was his fault and manoeuvres around him without a word and without checking to see if he is okay.
Morons. You can’t avoid them. They’re everywhere.
I feel a little sorry for the old man and would stop to help except I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I do glance in his direction to see if he is okay.
And gasp.
His baseball cap and sunglasses have come off as he has fallen.
I recognise him.
It is the man from the campus café. The man who wasn’t there.
It takes me about a second to place him, so unexpected is the sight, but there is no doubt. It is the same man.
This cannot be a coincidence.
He gets back to his feet far too quickly, far too spritely for a man of his apparent age, then my view is blocked briefly by a group of Asian tourists and when I look again, the man who wasn’t there is no longer there.
I look around, but can’t see him anywhere.
Crap. If I was thinking quickly I would have aimed the camera at him, tried to get his face on the same video, but I’m not fast or clever enough for that. The opportunity popped its head up, and I missed it.
I amble towards the airport bookshop and pick up a copy of the latest forensic detective potboiler, pretending to leaf through it while I scan the terminal, and stop the video recording.
I see Stamp disappearing through a door to the departure lounge.
There is nothing else to do here so I text Jackson to pick me up and wander outside.
There he is again. The same man, although he no longer looks old. The cap and sunglasses have gone and the Hawaiian shirt is hidden under a grey jacket. His posture is quite different too. He seems a different person to the one I saw inside, and yet it is definitely him.
I conceal myself behind a middle-aged couple with teenage children, arguing over a missing passport. I observe the man as best as I can without risking being spotted.
He waits by the trolley rank. He is joined by a larger man, tough-looking, with a square jaw and narrow goatee that comes out in a triangle from his nose as if it has been sneezed on.
A car pulls up and they get in. I get a look at the driver, a woman, with dark hair cropped short. She wears aviator-style sunglasses and has a jagged scar from the edge of her mouth back towards the lobe of her ear. It looks as though some time in her past her cheek had been ripped open.
The van accelerates away and is out of sight before Jackson arrives.
“What’s happening?” he asks as I get in.
“He’s on a plane to New York,” I say.
“So where to?” he asks.
“Back to his house,” I say.
On the way I sit quietly, thinking. Jackson can tell I don’t want to talk, and doesn’t attempt to force conversation. He’s good like that.
I really like Jackson.
It’s a shame he’s gay.