It felt weird being back behind the wheel. It hadn’t even been two days and already the Mustang felt like it belonged to someone else. But it drove just fine, even with the four new tires, and Nova followed the PCH for a half hour before he realized just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours. It hadn’t been a problem before because his body had been on full alert, but now his stomach was beginning to growl.
A gas station was coming up on the right. He flicked on his turn signal and eased his way into the parking lot.
His goal had been to drive across the country, and now here he was in California, the smell of the Pacific Ocean thick in the air. Despite this, he felt no satisfaction.
He stepped through the door into the air conditioning, a bell jangling above his head.
The kid behind the counter looked up from his magazine, paused at the sight of Nova’s face and clothes, and then slowly nodded hello.
“Bathroom?” Nova asked.
The kid jerked a thumb toward the rear of the store.
Nova headed down the aisles, thinking he might get some candy bars and a soda. Junk food, sure, but it would be something to hold him over until he got wherever he was going. He would need to stop someplace for clothes first. His clothes were filthy. Blood spotted his jeans. He was pretty sure most of the blood didn’t belong to him.
In the bathroom he stared at himself in the mirror. No wonder the kid had looked scared. Nova was a mess. He felt like it, too, but that was nothing new. Or was it?
Shaking his head, he turned on the faucet and pressed the button for soap. The odor hit him at once, just as the orange dollop touched his palm. Dial soap.
Nova didn’t move for several long seconds, the water from the spout running. Finally he blinked and washed his hands. He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, turned off the water, and headed back into the store.
The kid was still behind the counter, watching him. Nova didn’t slow in any of the aisles. He didn’t pluck any candy bars from the wire racks. He went straight for the door. The bell jangled again above his head as he stepped outside.
He used his key to pop the trunk. A crowbar lay inside. He pulled it out, held it in his hand for a moment, then swung it back over his head.
The rear windshield spiderwebbed on the first hit. On the second the glass broke and rained inside. Nova went to the rear side window next, then the front side window. Swinging the crowbar again and again. Glass popping and shattering. Metal crunching and tearing. Nova didn’t stop. His breathing was calm. His pulse had slowed. He was in a zone, thinking about nothing else except Dial soap washing young hands after having washed and fed and helped a dying woman to the bathroom. And this car—this Mustang that he had always cherished, had always coveted, had always known that one day would be his despite his old man telling him it would never happen—needed to be destroyed. It needed to be taken apart, piece by piece, though Nova didn’t have the patience for that. And so he swung the crowbar, again and again, circling the car a second time, the crowbar held high over his head for yet another crushing blow when the kid shouted at him.
“The hell are you doing?”
Nova paused, the crowbar tight in his hand, and tilted his face toward the kid.
The kid took a slow, hesitant step back.
“It’s okay,” Nova said. “It’s my car.”
“What?”
“The car. I own it. I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.”
“But … you’re making a mess.”
Nova dropped his shoulders, let the crowbar clatter to the ground. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several fifty-dollar bills. Winters had given them to him before they parted ways. For gas, Winters had said. Nova started to approach the kid, but the kid started to back away again.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Nova said.
“Yeah, sure. Is that what you told your car?”
Nova counted out ten of the fifties and extended them to the kid. “Call a tow truck. Have them take the car wherever they want. Smash it up, fix it up, I don’t care. I don’t want it anymore.”
The kid still looked hesitant, but he took the proffered fifties. “What about my parking lot?”
Nova glanced again at what was left of the Mustang. Bent and broken metal and shards of glass glinting in the morning sunlight. He counted out two more fifties and handed them to the kid.
The kid took the bills but said nothing.
“Where’s the closest Walmart?”
The kid pointed down the highway.
“Thanks,” Nova said.
He started walking.