"I'll go pack."
Chapter 37
Antioch March opened his eyes and tried to recall where he was.
Oh. Right.
A motel off the 101.
After getting the Google alert on his phone, he'd tried to make it all the way to his destination last night. But there'd been delays. He'd needed to steal a car--an old black Chevy, it turned out--from the long-term lot at Monterey Airport. He'd thought there was a possibility he'd have to abandon his wheels when he arrived at the destination and he wasn't prepared to lose the Honda just yet.
There were better ways to get an untraceable car than theft, much better, but this matter was urgent and he'd had no choice but to steal the vehicle. Hot-wiring, it turned out, was really quite simple: Pull the ignition harness bundle out, gang together everything but the--in this case--blue wire. Rig a toggle and then touch the blue wire to the bound leads (let go right away or you'd ruin the starter). Then pop the cover off the lock assembly and knock out the steering wheel pin. Easy.
Still, he hadn't hit the road until about 2:00 a.m.
Several hours later fatigue had caught up with him here, near Oxnard, and he'd had to stop for some rest. He imagined what would have happened if he'd dipped to snoozing and run off the road. The Highway Patrol, suspecting drinking, would have possibly found the Glock 9 mm and a car registration that had someone else's name on it. And the evening would not have gone well.
So he'd made a stop here, at a dive of a motel, along with truck drivers and Disney-bound tourists and college students whose energy for copulation was quite astonishing, as well as noisy.
Now, close to 8:00 a.m., March rose slowly to waking, thinking about the dream he'd just had.
Often Serena. Sometimes Jessica.
This one had been about Todd.
Todd at Harrison Gorge. It was in upstate New York, on a busy river, one that led ultimately to the Hudson.
The park and nearby town, colonial era, was a romantic getaway, four hours from Manhattan. The day he was thinking of, the Day of Todd, was nestled in the midst of leaf season. Officially out of school then, working in sales, he'd been in Ithaca, New York, a call. He'd kept some sentimental ties to academia by working for a company that sold audiovisual equipment to colleges. After a lackluster pitch at Cornell, he'd recognized the symptoms: edgy, depressed. The Get was prodding. He'd canceled a second meeting and left, driving back to his motel.
He saw the park on the way and decided, on a whim, to check it out. March spent an hour hiking along the trails, surrounded by leaves spectacular even in light mellowed by overcast. March had his camera and he shot some pictures as he walked. The rocks, brown and gray like ancient bone, and stark tree trunks impressed him more than the colors.
Click, click, click...
March had spotted a sign, HARRISON GORGE, and followed the arrow.
Although the weather had thinned the visitors, he came upon a cluster of people--mostly young, rugged outdoor people, rock-climbing people. Helmets and ropes and well-used backpacks. One young man had stood off to the side, looking down at the water. Someone had called his name.
Todd...
Blond, cut and muscled, about March's age. Lean, handsome face. Eyes that would probably be confident at any other time. But not today. The others left; Todd remained.
And March had approached.
Listen, Todd, I know it's a big leap. I know you're scared. But come on, don't worry. Everything'll be fine. If you never try something, you never know, do you?
I see you have a Get of your own to scratch.
Come on... A little closer, closer.
Go for it, Todd. Go for it.
Yes, yes, yes...
Antioch March smiled at the memory. It seemed both from another life and
as real as yesterday.
He stretched. Okay. Time to get to work. March showered and dressed. He looked in the mirror and smiled once more. The blond hair was just plain odd.