Chapter 17

11:57 a.m. – 13:21 to Termination

In my end is my beginning. —Mary Queen of Scots

Nick steered the Maverick up the drive toward Aunt Caroline’s house, the gravel crunching under its tires. Parking to the side of the house, he went around back and let himself into the garage.

The garage had two bays—one of them empty. Aunt Caroline would have her seven-year-old Subaru station wagon at the school in Brigham City. She said it got good gas mileage, and she used the extra cargo space to carry her pottery to different farmers’ markets all over the valley.

Her second vehicle—the one parked in the garage—was a year-old Honda Pilot. Aunt Caroline didn’t let anything keep her from going on hikes up into the mountains, and that included freezing temperatures, feet of snow, and rugged terrain. The Pilot got her and her snowshoes to most of the trailheads all winter long. She used it to get through Sardine Canyon when the roads were bad.

Nick opened the door leading into the home with a pang of guilt—an old and familiar guilt. When he chased someone with a short timer, he often entered places he hadn’t been invited. He did it for the greater good. Sneak into somebody’s back yard to watch over them. Hide just outside a person’s window. Keep them safe.

He could justify the trespassing, but it never felt right.

The house sat still. The décor simple and sparse. A plush rug on the hardwood floor. A single painting over the fireplace. A tall lamp. Pottery in the kitchen. The place felt hollow without his aunt here—an empty frame devoid of a soul.

Walking to the kitchen, he got a drink of water straight from the tap. He thought about getting something for the baby, but after checking the fridge decided baby formula was his safest bet, and Aunt Caroline would have none of that. Plucking keys from a round clay dish next to the sink, he returned to the garage.

In a few moments he had the pilot backed out of the garage, and the Maverick in its place. He grabbed the white sack with the phones and batteries and moon pies and put it in the back of the Pilot.

If the police had followed his trail to Mr. Howard’s, and had discovered the missing Maverick, they’d be looking for it. But no one would find it until Aunt Caroline got home in another five hours.

By then, if his luck held out, he’d have yet another car. And he’d be a hundred miles into Idaho.

He eased the Pilot down the drive and stopped in front of the studio. Jane still slept on the cushion. Sunlight poured in from the southern windows, and the studio, cool a few minutes before, now felt comfortably warm.

He leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly tired. Closing his eyes, he absorbed the stillness. For a moment, he thought of curling up on the stuffed chair with Jane. He could cradle the baby and sleep until the world came crashing to an end.

Jane’s breathing filled the stillness. Nick adjusted his own breathing until it was in synch with hers. Eyes closed, he could almost imagine his inhaling and exhaling was not breathing at all, but air swaying through a deep forest. The rhythm of life. In and out. In and out. A peaceful pulse, going on and through to eternity.

He opened his eyes with a start. There wasn’t time for nonsense. Checking his watch, he saw he had less than thirteen hours before the end.

Time to move.

Nick slid his arms under the cushion and lifted both the baby and the cushion to the Pilot. Placing the cushion in the back seat, he wrapped a seatbelt around the baby and cushion as best he could. In an accident, it would likely do little, but better than Jane riding on the floor.

You really know how to take care of a baby.

He spit onto the gravel and climbed behind the wheel.

Starting the Pilot, he pulled out onto the dirt road. In a few moments, he was on the pavement again.

Nick looked at his watch. Just after noon. Two hours and ten minutes had passed since he’d taken the baby. He’d changed his appearance and changed cars twice.

He didn’t think the police had tracked him, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe they were pulling security cameras up and down Main Street. Perhaps another driver saw him on the road. In Paradise, a woman in a sundress watered her roses and stared at him as he drove past. If she called the police, then they could track him this far south.

But that didn’t matter because now he was headed north. Back into the fray.

He flipped on the Pilot’s radio. Four minutes passed before the song ended and the radio host reminded everybody of the Amber alert for a missing baby. Nick listened to the details. White male. Nineteen years old. Long dark hair and a beard. Possibly driving a dark green Ford Maverick.

Possibly. Mr. Howard hadn’t told them. Perhaps he’d said his car was in the shop. The police had made a correct guess, but his friend had kept his promise.

The Amber alert said nothing about a stolen Pilot, or where he might be headed. The station returned to music, and he turned the radio down.

He forced himself to look bored. No, not just look bored—become bored. He focused on slowing his heart. He cleared his mind. He let his whole being settle into indifference. Eyes staring ahead. Hand resting lightly on the wheel. He didn’t want anything about his appearance to catch and snag in somebody’s mind.

Those on the road would likely not have seen a picture of him, and if they had, it would be the long-haired, scruffy-faced derelict standing in Walmart wearing a hoodie. Not the clean-shaven young man driving a Pilot and wearing an orange T-shirt. No one in their right mind wore bright orange when running from the police.

He drove and thought and listened to the radio with half an ear. He rubbed his temple and planned out his next moves. North. Far away from Logan. A place where he could sit, think, and experiment.

A single police car passed him just south of Logan. The patrol car was heading north and moving fast. Nick breathed slow. The Officer may have looked over, but he didn’t stop.

Jane continued to sleep on the back seat. Nick turned off 89 at the Sinclair station. Ten minutes later, he turned east onto 14th North. He crossed Main Street and pulled into the Lee’s Marketplace parking lot. He drove around to the side and put the car in park. It was warm enough that he left the car running and the AC blowing.

Jane stirred in the back. Nick looked at his watch. Twelve forty-five. He hoped he hadn’t missed Celeste. Her manager might have let her leave early.

He studied the cars parked around him. This would be where the employees parked. There were a couple of newer-model sedans owned by the adult employees or cars borrowed from parents by the younger employees—not the kind of car a woman would bring to college. A jacked-up truck with oversized tires sat a little to one side. That was somebody’s baby, but he didn’t think it was the car he was looking for.

He spotted an early nineties white Ford station wagon. The car was clean but looked worn—a cheap car to take to college. Someone had applied a Violent Femmes sticker to the rear window.

That’s the one.

He located two other cars he thought might be possible candidates, then opened the door and stepped out. Jane whimpered in the back seat but didn’t wake. When she did, she’d probably demand to eat.

He walked over to the Ford, scanning the parking lot as he went. Stopping at the passenger seat, he pulled the handle.

Locked.

He looked through the window. The driver’s side was unlocked.

Casting another glance around the parking lot, he moved to the other side. A shopper walked away from the store to his car but paid no attention to Nick.

Nick opened the door, slid into the car, and leaned across the seats. In the glove compartment, he found what he wanted. A Utah registration. Name and address were printed in the upper left-hand corner.

Celeste Winward
1526 North, 500 West #3
Logan, Utah. 84321

Returning the registration, he closed the compartment, then reached into the back and unlocked the rear passenger door. He backed out of the car, and in another moment, he was inside the Pilot again.

He waited. At one point, he stepped out of the car to smoke a cigarette and then got back inside the Pilot. The muffled sound of traffic filled his ears. Jane started to fuss.

“Come on,” he muttered. He checked his watch. It was ten past one.

He undid the seatbelt around Jane and picked her up. Wrapping the baby in his hoodie, he tried bouncing her. She continued fussing.

He watched the side of the store. He looked at his watch. Nothing to do but wait.

Six minutes later, Celeste came around the corner of the store. Nick turned the Pilot off and dropped the keys to the floor. He took a deep breath.

Leaning forward, he pulled the gun out of his belt. He checked the safety and then placed it back in his pants.

This time there would be no lies. This time there would only be truth.

Jane still cried in his arms. Nick opened the door and stepped out of the car.