17. El Impala

I used to dream of normal, ordinary life. No fame or fortune, no excitement at every turn. Well, most of my today's excitement, I couldn't even display, let alone discuss with anyone. As for the rest… now I'm both famous, in a very specific sense of the term, and rich, compared to yesterday's near-poverty at least.

Well, not actually rich yet. After finalizing the settlement, the money was supposed to go to my special account, in four tranches, the process was to take up to three months. The settlement included a number of conditions as well. Some were quite funny, really: for example, I was not allowed to write and publish a book about the Iron Lake events. Other conditions seemed a bit more alarming, such as certain restrictions on transfers or withdrawals. Basically, I couldn't just cash it all out and skip the country.

Not that I honestly planned to. Where would I go anyway? Argentina, to kneel at Hannah's grave? Australia, getting lost in the deserts? Or Siberia maybe, where no FBI agent can hear you scream?.. There was no point in thinking that far.

"Miami," I announced to Harrison.

"What?.." he asked, choking on his hamburger. "Why?"

I patted him on the back:

"Don't you want to visit your native land?"

"Yeah, sick…" he said zero-enthusiastically, "I actually lived there for a while, remember? Foster home."

"Now we can get a real home for us."

"Like, a house?"

"I'm really more an apartment person," I smiled, "But house is great, sure, if you're up to it. Not necessarily in Florida. But a home, we do need. Do college prep, fix your stomach proper way. Live a life."

"Dunno… Sounds kinda like giving up."

"What does, treating the gastritis?"

"I still need to find Jacob," he explained matter-of-factly.

Ah-h, here we are again. Harrison's persistence in questing for Jacob was beginning to frighten me. He spoke of his old friend at every opportunity, his face all cruel and his fists clenched. That guy stuck in his mind like a self-tapping screw.

In a sense, I understood Harrison's tension – and I couldn't help but share it, partly. Yes, Jacob knew about The Code, about the real me. I was stupid enough to tell him that my victims were in hundreds. He even saw me cutting up Kurt… hell, he was an accomplice, too! While I was sorting out the rest of my problems, I didn't have time to think about Jacob. But now I had to keep him in mind as a threat as well, no matter how hard I'd love to turn the page. I had no idea how to deal with this threat, but perhaps it would be Harrison who would lead me to a solution…

"Why?" I asked.

"He must pay. For all he did."

"And what did he do, exactly?"

"What? Told you: Iris!.."

"Iris, yes, I know. But can you prove it to anyone? Now, let's role-play. Imagine we found this Jacob, somehow, miracles do happen. How do you take a hold of him, like, arrest? How do you take him to the police, what do you say to the cops?"

"I won't," full of mean determination, Harrison said. "I… I'll just put him down, like a rabid dick he is!"

'Rabid dick', I like it, Deb whispered as she leaned over my shoulder, He's so fucking keen to all this vigilante stuff.

Like father like son. What, is it that suspicious to you?

Too much, too early. You were pushing the previous Harrison to vigilantism. This one keeps pushing you.

Maybe that's because he's a natural. Maybe he's The One, finally.

Miguel, Lumen, Zach. Jacob. Remember Einstein? Insanity is doing the same over an over again…

Einstein's never said that, that's a very common misattribution of the quote.

Oh, you've got me, Big Brother, that changes everything. Please then, go ahead, see what happens.

"Everything okay, boys?" the waitress said. In my inner dialog, I missed her approaching and flinched in surprise.

"Yep. Thanks, Nora. As always."

"Why early today?" she asked as she habitually poured some more coffee into my cup.

"Summer break."

"It's not before the 12th. I do know, I drive my nieces to school every day."

"This bright young man here is in a special class," I explained.

"For retards," this bright young man said as if he wanted to publicly accuse me of something.

"No way Harrison, you stop it!" the waitress laughed, "You're kidding, right?"

"'Course he's kidding. He's in the gifted, Nora. Prepping for university, an accelerated program."

"Good for you! I'll get in college, too, one day. Check, Jim?"

"Are we that predictable?"

"You're folding your napkin already…" she smiled.

I grinned back and pulled out my wallet.

[***]

Lucy was on shift today, and I only managed to engage her for a few short minutes on the phone.

"I just call to say…" I said into the mic feeling terrible at such a primitive suggestion. But there was no way around this little mind trick: I had to get the girl in the right mood, in case she recounted our conversations to Hoopman… of which I had little doubt. "To ask you, actually. What I mean…"

"Yes, Jim?"

"Do you like it here in Albany?"

"It's okay, why?"

"Ever thought of going someplace warmer maybe?"

"I used to work in Kansas, and New Mexico too. Again, why?"

"Harrison and me, we're going to a little trip, to Florida."

"Can you speak faster?"

"Lu, I know you're much younger than me, and I'm not in the best place in life right now, but… Homeless actually, what can I say. Okay, I might become a richer man soon, at least, but… Well, I…"

"Faster, Jim!"

"Will you wait for me to come back?"

She was silent for a second. I heard her breathing on the speaker.

"Will you come back?" she asked finally.

"Yes."

"Then I will wait for you, Jimmy."

"Miss you," I said and hung up.

Well, not really a Shakespearean quality performance, but will do.

Couldn't bring yourself to say "Love you", Big Brother?

Nope.

Do you love her?

Do I have to?

Do you?

Love is such a final word, Deb. Once you said it, you can't take it back without betraying yourself.

That's only true for true love.

Are there false ones?

Angela Bishop did quite a number on you.

Did I love her?

Did you?

What, are you saying I like Lucy so much just because of the contrast?

Wow, bro. All philosophy now. It's so much easier to discuss such things with your sister when she's fucking dead, right?

Uh, shut up, you Evil Queen!

[***]

I carefully divided Jacob Broussard's blood and sweat samples into several parts and hid them in the Impala so that none of the samples looked important. Without any lab equipment, it was difficult to ensure the purity of the samples, but I hoped that this wouldn't interfere with future analysis.

Then I visited the bank and collected my new card with the supplementary package of papers. The manager helped me set up notifications on my phone so that I'd immediately be informed of the first tranche. I just hoped the money would come quickly enough that I didn't really have to ask Harrison for a charity.

Several more obligatory calls and movements away, we were ready to go. We've checked the car for the last time, stuffed our meager belongings into the trunk – and hit the Interstate 95, South.

The trip from Albany to Miami can be completed in twenty hours tops, if you are persistent and lucky enough. But we decided not to rely on luck and planned an overnight stop in Fayetteville. In case of breakdowns or other troubles, we pre-Googled other motels along the way too.

But the trip was easy. The Impala was chugging as honestly as it could, Harrison and I were taking turns driving every two hours. We were listening to The Clash, and Dramarama, and Cake, and Edison Lighthouse, and Connie Francis, all whatever the creaking radio would suggest – all the good stuff. We were eating… well, less good, but fun anyway: cold takeaway pizza, some HighKeys, and cheap Paleonola; Evian, iced coffee, and random Milky Ways – what more could you desire when father and son are doing some heavy-duty bonding?..

And bonding we were. Well, not as heavy-duty as I'd hoped when planning this trip.

Harrison spoke willingly about the weather and the road, about the places he had been, about his studies. But he had no recollections of Rita at all, and he didn't remember much about his life in Miami. He was getting nervously reserved, almost timid, when I was asking about Argentina or Hannah. It seemed that these memories bring him some kind of pain, but I could not really understand its cause.

But the source of the other pain was quite obvious to me: any mention of Maureen Grace Jung, the girl he loved, would make Harrison depressed and embittered. As of Jacob Broussard…

My son was dead-set determined on punishing the guy. Sometimes, during his lengthy and acerbated reflections on the subject, Harrison would glance at me sideways and say that he should not talk about this with his father… but sooner or later all the vengeful planning would restart again. Deb was chuckling from the backseat, but I couldn't find any part of all this anger amusing. I had to calm the boy down over and over, to try and convince him that violence never solves anything, that it's necessary to leave the investigation to the authorities.

"Fuck authorities!" he yelled. We've just passed Dunn, and we were both pretty tired by then. His temper was getting out of control again.

"Language, son."

"Authorities!.. What are you, naive? Can't you see they do nothing about, corrupted and… It's all just so… Ah-h, to hell with authorities, they never stop no one!"

"No one?"

"Can't you see, Dad? You were a cop, you must know! So many freaks in the world, on the streets… Murderers, sex offenders, who… And the police does nothing!"

"I wasn't a cop, and yes, police does a lot, actually. It's impossible to catch 100% of criminals, otherwise it'd be…"

"If only…" he wasn't really listening, "If only I could protect everyone. To stop those who escape the law, to hurt them… hurt them real bad."

The Dark Defender, gen 2.0. Happy, bro?

Not exactly.

"Okay, stop working yourself up, Harrison. I wasn't a cop, but you granddad, Harry, he was. And he used to say: As a cop, I only fire my weapon to save a life. You see, son, if it's all about justice for you, then you can't just…"

"I don't like guns, Dad. I tried to, back in Argentina… but I prefer knives."

Deb leaned back in her seat and was applauding lazily.

[***]

The night at the Sweet Valley motel passed without events or any new bloodthirsty revelations.

"Wakey-wakey," I said as I knocked on the door of Harrison's with my cane.

"Umph…" he replied, "Hi, Dad… What time is it?"

"Almost seven. Time to eat and move on."

"Coming…"

Despite the apparent drowsiness, he gathered himself in a blink; for his age, the boy seemed very collected in everyday situations. He also happened to be a pretty good driver, and I willingly entrusted him with the first shift.

"Goodbye, Fayetteville," I said looking out of window and sipping the last of my Minute Maid through a straw.

"It's Vander," Harrison replied, "Should've stayed at Judson, by the way. Starbucks and all."

"Whatever, son. All I can think of now is Miami. There's no place like home, Toto!"

He nodded, confidently turning the steering wheel, and wanted to say something, but my cell beeped.

"A sec," I checked the message.

"What's that?" Harrison asked looking at my bewildered smile.

"'Sal good, son," I said, putting my phone away, "You know you a really good driver? We should buy you new wheels soon."

"Early Christmas?"

"You bet. Rethinking my life. Fatal Attraction, check. Police procedural, check. Court drama, check. Now, it's a road movie."

"Like it much?"

"It's getting better," I replied, feeling that I was telling the truth. If only I could know what's next for me. Coming-of-age comedy?..

[***]

By the end of the day, we've reached Limestone Creek. Never liked these parts much, but it was Miami all right. I clung to the side window, eagerly looking at my native places.

30 minutes later we were at Holcroft.

"Here's it, I think," I said, pointing down the exit to the motel parking lot. "Pull over here, Harrison. Alou-Carrera… yep, we're here. Looks cheap enough."

"Sick. Should've booked a B&B."

"We'll manage. You park, I'll go to… What the?!."

Directly in front of the manager's office, blocking the passage, there was a huge, gloss black Lexus SUV. A large man in a suit and a narrow-brimmed fedora was sitting on the hood of the car. Seeing us, he easily jumped down to the ground, straightened his suit and walked toward the Impala. Staggering on stiff legs, I got out of the car.

"Hello, Dextehw Mowgan," said Captain Angelo Juan Marcos "No relation" Batista, holding out a strong hand to me and looking carefully into my eyes.