Five hours and thirty-eight minutes later, Evan was standing on the side of I-65 between Birmingham and Wetumpka, gazing up at a five-hundred-gallon version of the same eyesore.
Twenty-seven minutes after that, his headlights picked up Jack’s truck parked at the edge of a fire road running between two swaths of cotton that stretched into the darkness, maybe forever.
He climbed out of the Impala, unholstered his slender ARES pistol for the first time, and approached the truck tentatively. It was cold enough out to be uncomfortable, but he didn’t have any interest in being uncomfortable. He shone a key-chain Maglite through the windows and took in the damage. Slashed seat cushions, scattered papers from the glove box, holes punched through the headliner. They’d searched as well as he’d expected they would. They’d have been looking for anything that might point them to Evan.
His breath fogging the pane, Evan stared at the defaced interior and considered how many years Jack had polished this dashboard, vacuumed the seams, touched up the paint. Anger and sorrow threatened to escape the locked-down corner of his heart, and he took a moment to tamp it back into place.
He walked around the truck, searched for booby traps. None were visible.
The truck was unlocked. It was two decades old, but the hinges didn’t so much as creak when the door swung open. Jack’s hinges wouldn’t dare.
Evan sat where Jack used to sit.
Do you regret it? What I did to you?
He put his hands on the steering wheel. The pebbled vinyl was worn smooth at the ten and two. The spots where Jack’s hands used to rest.
I wanted to hear your voice.
Out of the corner of his eye, Evan caught a gleam from the molded map pocket on the lower half of the door. He reached down and lifted Jack’s keys into the ambient light.
Odd.
Jack never left his keys in the truck.
He was a creature of habit. The Second Commandment had always been his favorite: How you do anything is how you do everything. He had drilled it into Evan’s cells.
There was a likelihood, of course, that Van Sciver’s men had taken Jack’s keys when they’d grabbed him so they could search his truck. But if that were the case, once they were done, wouldn’t they just have tossed the keys back on the seat or dropped them into the cup holder? Placing them in a map pocket low on the door took consideration and a bit of effort.
It’s too late for me.
Jack had known he was about to get grabbed.
This is looking to be my ninth life, son. Dollars to doughnuts they’ve got ears on me right now.
And Jack would’ve controlled the terms. Evan guessed he would’ve gotten out of the truck under his own power. Left it unlocked for the search. Placed the keys carefully for Evan to find.
But why?
Sometimes we miss what’s important for the fog. But maybe we should give it a go before, you know …
Jack had known he was about to die.
I guess … I guess I want to know that I’m forgiven.
Evan looked through the dirty windshield. The night swallowed up the land all around. Sitting in the cab of Jack’s truck, Evan could just as well have been floating through the black infinity of outer space.
“We didn’t have time,” he told the dashboard. “We didn’t have enough time.”
I love you, son.
“Copy that,” Evan said.
He pondered the darkness, his breath wisping in the November chill.
Before he died, Jack had wanted to set things right with Evan—he’d made that much clear. But maybe his words held a double meaning. What if there was something else he was looking to set right? He’d known that Van Sciver was listening. He would’ve spoken in code.
Evan replayed the conversation in his head, snagged on something Jack had said: Sometimes we miss what’s important for the fog.
The turn of phrase was decidedly un-Jack. Jack had a down-to-earth, articulate speaking style, the patter of a former station chief. He was not flowery, rarely poetic, and tended to make use of metaphors only when undercutting them.
Evan looked down at the keys in his hand.
miss what’s important for the fog
The realization dropped into his belly, rippling out to his fingertips.
He zippered the key into the ignition.
The well-maintained engine turned over and purred.
Evan sat.
He leaned forward so that his mouth would be that much closer to the cooling windshield. And he breathed.
A full minute passed. And then another.
Fog started creeping in from the edges of the windows. He shifted in the seat, watched the driver’s window.
As fog crept to the center of the pane, a few streaks remained stubbornly clear. They forged together as the condensation filled in around them, finally starting to resolve in the negative space as letters.
In his final minutes, Jack had written a low-tech hidden message for Evan with the tip of his finger.
Evan stared at the window, not daring to blink.
At last the effect was complete, Evan’s orders standing out in stark relief on the clouded glass.
GET PACKAGE
3728 OAK TERRACE #202
HILLSBORO, OR
Jack had given him a final mission.