CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I ran from the motel. Kept running until I reached the street, where I slowed to a jog. Two blocks away, I went into an all-night drugstore, where I bought a bottle of Dr Pepper and a Snickers bar. I still had fourteen hundred dollars stashed away, some in my bag and some in my purse, but I didn’t use that. I pulled out a twenty from my pocket—the money I’d stolen—and slapped it onto the counter. Then I went out front, under the store lights, guzzled the Dr Pepper, and wolfed down the candy bar.
Blood still flecked my shirt, hidden under the jacket I’d pulled on before going into the store. I should have been emptying my stomach, not filling it. I should be shivering in an alley as I retched onto the gravel. But I didn’t feel sick. I felt hungry. Starving. The syrupy soda and cheap chocolate tasted better than any gourmet meal.
My whole body still trembled. But there was no fear there. No voice screaming that it was four in the morning, and I was alone in the street and had to get somewhere safe.
No, I was safe. That trembling in my arms and legs wasn’t fear. It was victory.
Did I feel bad about stabbing him? No. I’d left the phone. He’d be fine. Same went for taking the money. No guilt. For all I knew, it was his life savings. Too bad. I needed it, and he deserved to lose it.
As the pop and the candy bar settled into my stomach, the adrenaline ebbed and I sobered. Okay, I’d won a round. Good for me. But I might not be so lucky next time. Apparently, I had more to worry about than bloodthirsty reporters and the grief-crazed relatives of the Larsens’ victims. There were some serious nut jobs out there, and the next one might want more than a lock of hair.
I opened my purse and pulled out the folded note the old man had given me. Cainsville. If it was outside Chicago, people might be less likely to recognize me. After what just happened, that had become my main priority.
Still . . . moving to a town I’d never heard of? There had to be another way.
As I stood there thinking, a truck pulled up to refill the newspaper box out front. The Chicago Tribune. It was day two—any story would have moved off the front page by now. I’d try the Tribune’s classifieds today, and with any luck, find different ads for apartments and jobs.
I waited until the truck pulled away. Then I walked over to the box, bent to put in my money, and saw the headline, just above the fold.
“A Mother’s Desperate Jailhouse Plea.”
Then the subhead: “Pamela Larsen Collapses at News of Long-Lost Daughter.”
I straightened and walked back into the drugstore.
Cainsville, Illinois, here I come.
• • •
An hour later, I was in a coffee shop restroom. I wore a fresh shirt, the blood-spattered one deep in my bag. I should probably have thrown it out, but that motel clerk wouldn’t dare call the cops, and I couldn’t afford new clothes.
On the counter was a box of hair dye. Red. Or, as the box proclaimed, dark copper. Strands of my hair snaked toward the drain. More filled the trash. I’d dyed it, then I’d cut it more. As it got shorter, the light curl became more pronounced. When I got it down to a few inches and added some gel, I ended up with a tousled, coppery mop. The new cut even made my glasses look different, the dark green frames funky and playful. In other words, I didn’t look like me at all.
Perfect.
It was barely six. So I hung out in the coffee shop, feasting on caffeine and sugar—as if I hadn’t had enough of both already. I spent a few dollars on cell phone calls, searching for a method of public transportation to Cainsville.
Greyhound had never heard of the place. Neither had Amtrak. I was starting to wonder if it existed outside the old man’s imagination when a clerk at a regional bus line said she knew it.
“I grew up a few towns over,” she said. “But you’re not going to find a bus heading out that way, hon. Too far from the interstate.” She laughed. “Too far from anywhere anyone wants to be, if you ask me.”
Which made it exactly where I wanted to be.
• • •
Is there such a thing as an adrenaline hangover? I certainly had one on the trip from Chicago to Cainsville. Maybe a better analogy would be laughing gas wearing off after a dental visit. I’d felt fine—better than fine—until I sat down on the cab’s cracked vinyl upholstery, and then what I’d just done hit with the force of a sledgehammer.
I’d attacked a man. Stabbed him. More than once. I’d left him there, bleeding, and I’d stolen his money before I went. Yes, I could argue that I’d been defending myself and maybe three blows weren’t warranted, but I couldn’t risk the guy coming after me. Still . . . taking his money?
It wasn’t just what I’d done that bothered me. It was how easily I’d done it. There’d been no hesitation. I’d reacted on instinct.
And where did that instinct come from? That was the real question, wasn’t it?