33. The passenger

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Something slides around in the trunk every time I turn or stop. It sounds soft and heavy—I don't like this sound; it's oddly familiar.

I drive the streets of Ocala for about an hour, finding something wrong with any space I might park and hide in. I constantly check my speed, hitting the brakes when I realize I'm over the limit.

Something's happening. Jack and Morgan abducted Cole, and I don't know what they're planning. Don't know what to think, and that not-knowing crackles through me—a spark in my blood that won't die down. It just sizzles, circulating.

My face hurts, and I have a headache. My lip is still bleeding. Never had a gun in my face. Never wrestled for my life before. And Morgan's kid—what's the truth? She certainly left that out of her sob story to me. Is Cole as bad as she makes him out to be, or is that a lie, too?

My phone buzzes; I check it. A text from Morgan:

Come to the trailer park, wait outside.

I make my way out of Ocala toward the little rural development. After I park on the side of the small farm road that connects to the trailer park, there is nothing to do but wait.

It's only a few minutes before I see two figures, male and female, walking toward me. Jack in a red hoodie, hands tucked into the pocket at its center, and Morgan in charcoal slacks and a teal blouse. Clothes whip like shrouds in the wind, constant eastbound motion tugging them off their path.

Nothing seems particularly urgent about the way they move. However, a thin stream of black smoke rises from somewhere deeper within the park.

I get out of the car, not even bothering with my crutches, but instead using the vehicle to support my weight as I hop to the back seat and open it. By the time I slide back into my spot, Jack opens the driver's side and climbs in.

Morgan, however, doesn't follow. Instead, she walks around to my window, and motions for me to roll it down. I do.

"I need to ditch Cole's car," she says. Her voice is tired, and wind whips the tips of her dark hair against her neck and face. "Stay with Jack."

"How about Jack hides the truck, and you come with me?" I ask.

I don't get a response—just a look that tells me not to argue.

"Let me come with you in Cole's car, then!" I call at her back.

"It involves a hike." I barely hear her; she's already halfway across the road again. The thin stream of smoke rising from the trailer park grows to a thicker column, hooking up and to the right as wind drags it away from its source.

I roll the window back up.

"We've got a present to return," Jack tells me.

I say nothing as he pulls a U-turn and begins driving back toward Ocala.

Rice fields surround us, saturated in a few inches of water, and the shallow pools glitter in the sunlight. Sprouts shoot up in patches, breaking the gleaming baldness of their surfaces.

"You guys killed Cole, didn't you?" I ask. I lean my head against the hot window and stare at the rubber lining where glass meets metal.

Jack checks his wristwatch. "By now, probably." He glances back at me. "What, you feel bad?"

"He was going to shoot me," I say, aware I'm rationalizing it.

Jack chuckles. "You do feel bad. What's that like?"

"It hurts."

He starts to respond, then looks back at me and seems to reconsider. After a moment, he starts again: "I mean, he probably didn't suffer. We gave him a lot of ether; he'll suffocate before he burns to death. Cole won't even know he's dead."

That doesn't make me feel much better. But, it's not like I killed him. Not like there's any other way. Right?

Jack, on the other hand, seems chipper. He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, then accelerates into a turn so that the back wheels spin to the side as he brings the car around.

"And he really beat Morgan?"

"I've seen the bruises," he calls back, glancing into the rearview mirror. "She was a completely different person back then. Scared of everything. There was no division between her and her shadow; Morgan didn't realize she could be someone else. I freed her."

"You have an easy time killing people, don't you?" I ask.

Jack shrugs. "Murder." He sneers the word. "Murder is a human thing, it's an idea. I don't care about ideas. Animals kill, they don't murder. And the whole business is so conceptual anyway. Most of the people I kill never existed in the first place, you know, like Ronald Silver. Murder is something a prosecutor charges you with, it's a concept."

"Except when you murder a person like Cole or Kayla, that person doesn't get to exist anymore," I say.

"Yeah, but that's just one person."

"You're just one person, Jack."

We follow the road through an increasingly frequent set of traffic lights, convenience stores and fast food restaurants. We cross into the outer layers of Ocala.

A dim, cluttered gas station with fresh paint—tired employee sucking a cigarette next to the dumpster, a brief moment to be herself. Taco huts turn to fried chicken, to waffle houses, and by the time we're nearly to downtown, an Italian restaurant—rose red roof on a pink building.

Jack begins cursing. "Goddamnit. Knew it was too soon, they must be looking for the car."

I twist and look out the rear window. A police cruiser trails us, lights flashing, black grill caging chrome bumper.

"What the hell?" I ask.

"I blinked. Act normal," Jack instructs. "I don't have a driver's license. And, I'm not insured. And, we might be completely screwed, here."

This does not inspire confidence.

Jack pulls to a stop in the shoulder of the road. Faces in passing cars turn to stare at us; I search the interior of the car as though I'll find some escape hatch to deliver me from this situation.

The cop's door opens and he steps out. Beige uniform, black cap pulled low, silver star embroidered in its center. Not even a person, but a symbol of something I fear.

Jack rolls down his window as the man leans down and sticks his face in it.

"License and registration," he says, voice gruff.

"Can I ask what I did?"

"License and registration," he repeats.

"That's the thing, officer," Jack says. There's a little tremor in his tone, something I never heard before. "I just borrowed my friend's car so I could pop out to get a bite to eat, I don't have any paperwork on me."

"Step out of the car, sir," the officer says. He glances back at me, but seems uninterested. "Sir, do you mind if I look around the car?"

"Can I ask why?" Jack asks.

"Because this car is registered to a woman named Sarah Feisel. Are you Sarah Feisel?" he asks.

Jack shakes his head. "I know her, though. I just spoke to her ten minutes ago—do you want me to call her for you?"

The officer doesn't answer, but instead opens the rear door next to me. "You mind stepping out of the car as well?" he asks me.

I point at my broken leg, then nod in agreement. Something softens around his eyes as he watches me; he takes my crutches and holds them as I climb out. I make a show of wincing in pain as I rise, then take them from him.

"You okay?" he asks.

I only nod, certain the terror I'm feeling is evident on my face. Life in prison, the death penalty. It's all real again. I thought I could run, but there's no escape. It's like Morgan said: blink once, and they're on you.

"Did he hurt you?" the officer asks.

I only shake my head, afraid to let my accent be known. The look I get from him isn't suspicious, though. He seems worried about me.

That's fine. I'm worried about me, too. Ryan White's identification is in my pocket, but how long will that fool anyone?

The policeman leads Jack and me to the side of the road, and tells us to remain still while he searches. He paws under the seats, then between them, then through the glove box.

"What's in the trunk?" I ask quietly, not turning to look at Jack.

"The end of the line," he answers. His face has lost its color, and skin that was already pale has turned a light shade of green. "Y'know, since training you is going so well, here's a lesson: we should have switched cars again. There's always something to overlook. Sarah Feisel. I thought that name was clear."

"She used that name to bail me out of jail."

"Then that's why we're fucked," Jack says. "I put the car in her name."

The officer leans down under the driver's side dash and looks for the trunk release; he pulls it, and it pops open an inch. The cop walks around, puts both hands on the trunk, and lifts.

He looks down, then glances at us, then back at his cruiser. He leans forward, digs inside. Between the passing cars, I hear the sound of a zipper being pulled.

"Holy shit!" he shouts, taking two steps back, hand on his gun. Rather than going back to the trunk, he turns immediately to Jack and I. "Stay right there. Don't you move."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Yeah, what it is?" Jack asks as the policeman approaches.

He moves to Jack, grabs his left arm then steps behind him. As handcuffs click, I hobble a step forward and crane my neck so I can just see into the back of the car.

Protruding from a black canvas bag is the bald, bloodless face of a very dead man. 

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