Lola on Fire Page 12

  “What the fuck?” Molly fell out of the car, picked herself up, and hobbled around to Brody. She hit him twice with one of her crutches, then lost balance and stumbled backward. By this time her cell phone was a mess of plastic and broken glass. Brody picked up the pieces and threw them into the trees behind the cattle shed.

  “Brody?”

  “This is how they found us. How they’re tracking us.” He waved his own phone at the satellites before dropping it at his feet. “Jesus, Moll, haven’t you heard of geolocation?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s a way of determining the location of any web-based device.”

  “It’s . . . well, yeah.” Five furious strikes with the pistol grip ended his cell phone’s life. He flung the ruptured casing as far away as he could.

  Molly sat on the hood of the car. Her eyes were heavy but she was out of tears. “Who are ‘they,’ Brody?” She was sad, angry, and scared, but Brody knew she was more disappointed than anything. “And why do you have a gun?”

  Brody sighed. He aimed the pistol at the sky, pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  “It’s not real. It’s a replica. I used it to rob a convenience store.” He lowered the gun, then lowered his head, deeply ashamed. “That’s where I got the money from.”

  He told her everything.

  * * *

  Brody’s response to Molly getting bullied was to ask his dad if he could learn karate, and then to master the one-inch punch. Violence. His go-to solution, and one that mankind—with an emphasis on man—had favored since it dragged its knuckles along the ground. But Brody had bullies, too. Mainly on the inside. He’d had insecurity issues throughout his teens, which started when his mom hit the road, and manifested by way of nightmares, mood swings, and feelings of inadequacy. Molly had helped him through the worst of it, and while she occasionally expressed her frustrations by lashing out with her crutches, her default approach to problem solving was through conversation.

  As it was now.

  “There must be something,” she said. She had calmed down, but there was still a flush of color on her cheeks. “A detail, a flaw in the plan—something that Blair forgot, and that we can use to prove your innocence.”

  “The police are not an option, Moll.” They sat on the ground, their backs against the Pontiac’s freshly dented fender. “Blair is smart on a different level. A dangerous level. Like a shark. She’s thought of everything, and even if she hasn’t—if there is a flaw in the plan—I don’t fancy my public defender’s chances against Jimmy Latzo’s big city lawyers.”

  Molly sighed and rested her head on Brody’s shoulder.

  “And if, by some miracle, I can prove that I was framed,” Brody continued, “I don’t think Chainsaw Jimmy would let it lie. I broke into his house, after all. That’s an irrefutable fact. Caught on tape. He’ll kill me for that, if nothing else.”

  It was growing dark. The early October sun touched the horizon, pushing a rusty light through the trees and buildings. Power lines underscored the view. A breeze set everything flickering. It made the cattle shed creak and whistle.

  “We need to run,” Molly said. Even with her ability to strip a problem to its component parts and reassemble it into something hopeful, she still arrived at the same conclusion as Brody.

  “To hide,” he said.

  “Not just hide. Disappear.”

  “Right.”

  “But we can’t do that on our own. We need help.”

  Brody closed his eyes for a moment. She was still with him, at his side, despite everything. He wanted to throw his arms around her, drag her into the kind of hug that made small bones pop. He didn’t, though; it seemed an incommensurate way of showing gratitude for such strength. So he exhaled from deep within his chest and blinked at tears and absorbed the delicate weight of her head on his shoulder.

  “You mentioned Karl Janko earlier. Mom’s friend.” Molly lifted her head from Brody’s shoulder and looked at him in the reddish light. “You think he can help?”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Brody said. “I remember him more than I was letting on. And he was totally sketch. Someone like that might be able to help us . . . you know, disappear.”

  “He’s probably in prison.” Molly shook her head. “Or dead.”

  “Maybe. But it’s somewhere to start.”

  “We know anybody else?”

  “Johnny Frye—”

  “The pest control guy?”

  “He used to sell Ecstasy to high school kids.”

  “No. Absolutely not. Anybody else?”

  “Christy Beale. She’s cleaned up her act, but . . .” Brody shrugged, then started plucking clumps of yellow grass out of the dirt. “Kieran Houser. Franklin Ogg. Macy Zerilli—”

  “The bartender at Rocky T’s?” Molly rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

  “This is true.”

  “These are shitty options, Brody. In fact, they’re not options at all.” Molly leaned to her stronger side, grabbed one of her crutches, and hoisted herself to her feet. The pain clearly bolted through her, because she grimaced, but nothing more than that. “So I guess we need to track down Karl Janko.”

  Brody nodded. “Like I said: a good place to start.”

  “The only place to start.” Molly tapped the tip of one crutch against the Pontiac’s buckled hood. “We also need to dump the car.”

  “Dump it? You’re kidding, right?” Brody jumped to his feet, slapping dirt from the seat of his jeans. “I just spent five hundred bucks on a new fuel pump. And we might need to sleep—”

  “Christ, Brody, do you really need me to spell this out for you? Jimmy Latzo’s men are looking for this heap of shit.” The way she squared her shoulders assured Brody this was not open to negotiation. “There aren’t too many ’99 Sunfires on the road today. It’s distinctive, not to mention unreliable. We’re dumping it.”

  A large bird signaled from somewhere. Smaller birds peppered the western sky, dark as drops of water on red cloth.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Molly thrust her crutches into the dirt and started walking.

  “Wait. Christ, Molly. Wait.” Brody loped toward her, gesturing inanely at his car. “We’re walking?”

  “Sure.”

  “But—”

  “Grab our bags, and whatever else we need. I think”—she pointed one crutch at a sprinkle of lights to the north—“that’s Elder. I saw it on Google maps coming in. About three miles away, I’d say. We’ll leave the car here, cut across the fields. Should be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Molly, I really—”

  “I’ll be fine.” She pulled Motrin and Lioresal from her jacket pocket, popped one of each into her palm, and swallowed them with a single, practiced click of her throat. “Let’s go.”

  It was arduous going. The fields dipped and rose, in places marred with flints and potholes, and elsewhere with long, dry cogongrass that pulled at their heels. At one point they had to cut through a bedlam of leaning trees that conspired with the darkness, messed with their sense of direction. Molly fell twice. The first time she wouldn’t accept Brody’s help but the second time she did. They rested until they’d caught their breaths, pushed on, and eventually emerged on the edge of a stream with Elder’s lights not quite where they thought they’d be.

  They crossed the stream carefully, not bothering to take off their sneakers and socks. The landscape was easier on the other side and they pushed on eagerly. A skim of moon shone. Molly remained three or four paces ahead, digging her crutches into the dark ground.

  Brody breathed hard and watched the accent of her back, the rhythmic tick of her legs. He shifted the weight of their bags from one shoulder to another.

  “I’ll say this just once.” She stopped, turned to look at him. Elder’s lights framed her. He could see a strip mall and an overpass and an illuminated billboard that promised the most competitive insurance rates in the Magnolia State. “This is on you, Brody. Y
ou own this shit. I don’t ever want to hear—not fucking once—that you did this for me. You feed me that line of horseshit and I swear to God you’ll never see me again.”

  Before

  Lola Bear

  (1992)

  Lola had wanted to make the room as comfortable as possible: fresh, colorful carnations, pictures of his wife and son—both long dead—on the bedside table, Tin Pan Alley music playing softly in the background. But Grandpa Bear was a stubborn old mule, even now, and all he insisted on was a glass of cold water and the TV tuned to CNN.

  She watched him sleeping for a moment, supported by large pillows, his eyelids fluttering. All the muscle had been stripped from him. His body had been reshaped—the austere angles replaced by shadowy hollows and weak lines. To see him like this was unthinkable. This was the man who had taken care of her since she was fourteen, who’d taught her how to spot a concealed handgun, how to field dress a deer, how to tighten her shot groups at the range. And more, so much more. He was the beginning of everything she’d become.

  Lola stepped farther into the room, suppressing her emotion, as she was inclined to do, but feeling that, at twenty-four years old, she was too young to lose the most important person in her life, and one of only two people that she actually cared about.

  He opened his eyes suddenly, then turned toward her, noticing her there. His peripheral vision was still precise.

  “Lola,” he said warmly.

  “Hey, Gramps.” She found a smile, albeit a delicate one. “Just checking in. You need anything?”

  He returned her smile—his a little stronger—and pondered the question for several seconds. “No,” he croaked, and coughed, clearing his throat. “But you do.” He drew one hand from beneath the sheets and pointed at the dresser against the far wall. “Bottom drawer.”

  Lola walked to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. There were a few folded sweaters inside—clothes that Grandpa Bear would never wear again—and a brown faux-leather folder. She took it out.

  “What is this?”

  “Don’t ask questions,” Grandpa Bear said. “Just take it. Put it somewhere safe.”

  Lola opened the folder. Inside were driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, and birth certificates. Three of each. Lola’s photograph graced each driver’s license. She looked at the one from North Dakota. The name stamped across the front read ward, margaret naomi. The other names were Natalie Myles and Jennifer Ames.

  “How can I not ask questions?” There was surprise in Lola’s tone.

  Grandpa Bear coughed again and adjusted his pillows—or tried to; he couldn’t get the angle. Lola did it for him. He had been diagnosed with aggressive non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma two and a half years earlier. Doctors gave him three to six months. He’d battled like he had in Europe, Korea, and Vietnam. Three wars’ worth of toughness and experience. The fight was almost over, though.

  “I know you work for Jimmy Latzo,” he said, and coughed yet again. Lola handed him water and he sipped gratefully. “If I thought I could talk some sense into you, I would. But you are a stubborn young lady.”

  “That I am.” She took the glass away. “Wonder where I get that from.”

  “Must be a Bear thing.” The old man gave his head a little shake. “You could’ve been a cop, Lola. A damn good one.”

  “Sure, and get a psychiatric evaluation every time I fire my service pistol.” Lola took out another driver’s license. Same photograph. Different name. “Besides, all the sitting around, and all the paperwork, would drive me crazy.”

  “Like I said, there’s no talking sense into you, so all I can do is protect you, give you an exit.” Grandpa Bear tapped the folder. “Three exits, actually.”

  “Fake IDs?”

  “No. Think of them as resets. New beginnings.” Grandpa Bear coughed once again, fumbling for the glass. Lola held it to his lips and he took a long drink. He raised one finger when he’d had enough, then continued. “Working for Jimmy, there’ll come a time when you have to run, either from the law or from Jimmy himself. That’s the nature of the life you’ve chosen.”

  “Maybe.”

  “No maybe about it. This isn’t a long-term career, and you’ll make enemies. So I’ve given you three new starts. When the time comes, get as far away as you can, choose an identity, and live a different life. If you’re ever compromised, ditch that identity, and move on to the next one.” Grandpa Bear breathed deeply. His throat crackled. “Three should get you through, if you’re careful.”

  Lola looked at Natalie Myles’s Social Security card. “This is good work. Everything looks legit.”

  “I pulled a favor with an old friend, ex–Marshals Service. I saved his life in Iwo Jima. Just doing my job, but he promised to repay me somehow.” Grandpa Bear tapped the folder again. “All these names are in the system. If you need to renew a driver’s license, or apply for a passport, you can go through the legitimate channels. You can also vote, get a job, get married—”

  “Married?” Lola smiled. “Vince will be happy.”

  “No. Not Vince. You’ll be escaping your old life and everyone in it.” Grandpa Bear settled back into his pillows. His chest pumped out another rotten cough. “The moment you assume one of those identities, you start living a lie. And it’s a lie you can never unlive.”

  “Let’s hope,” Lola said, “it doesn’t come to that.”

  “It almost certainly will.” Grandpa Bear said nothing for a while. His chest climbed, then sagged. He looked unspeakably lovely, Lola thought. Large enough to have survived three wars, yet small enough to cradle.

  “You should get some rest,” she said.

  “Soon. Listen . . .” He urged her closer. She smelled the medicines on his breath. “I want you to open bank accounts in all three names. Do it in the states the driver’s licenses are issued in, so you don’t raise any flags. And don’t wait too long.”

  “I can do that,” Lola said.

  “Good. You’ll come into your inheritance . . . any day now.” Grandpa Bear allowed a tight, sad smile. “Divide it between your accounts. But launder it first, so there’s no paper trail. And launder it again if and when you relocate. I have a contact who can help with that.”

  “Okay,” Lola said.

  His bleary eyes fluttered, rolled to the ceiling, then slowly closed. Sunlight fell through the window in an even yellow bar, while a TV in the corner silently relayed the news: riots in Los Angeles after four police officers were acquitted in the brutal beating of Rodney King.

  “I said . . . get married, that you . . .” He mumbled, drifting into sleep. His lips made slight shapes. “But don’t . . . don’t . . .”

  “It’s okay, Gramps.” Lola took his hand and squeezed gently. “Sleep now.”

  “Don’t get married.” He looked at her. There was something in his eyes. Pain or disappointment. It didn’t matter which; both broke her heart. “Don’t put down roots, or make anything that you can’t leave behind.”

  Lola wondered what kind of life that would be, one without stability, without expectation or legacy. Was that really the track she was on? Or was there a brighter path ahead?

  Grandpa Bear muttered something else—she didn’t catch it—then drifted back off to sleep. Lola leaned over and kissed his forehead.

  “I’ll be okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to Grandpa Bear, who’d given her so much, and had never let her down.

  She tucked the folder beneath her arm and left the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Brody and Molly cut across farmland and entered Elder on its southwest side. The dark streets made surveying for suspicious vehicles and people difficult. When, after several minutes of walking, nobody had jumped them, Brody relaxed just a little.

  “What’s the plan, Moll?” He was content—relieved, even—to let his sister take the reins for a while.

  “We’re too close to where we lost them,” Molly said. “They might have eyes on this place. So we need a ride somewhere e
lse—forty, fifty miles away, at least. From there, we can catch a bus or train and go . . . shit, anywhere. As long as it has a motel and a library.”

  “A library,” Brody repeated. “You plan on doing some reading?”

  “Online reading, yes. Libraries have computers. I need to find Janko, remember, and I don’t know how long that will take.”

  Molly approached a young woman outside a small theater, speaking slowly to make herself understood, this—quite deliberately—emphasizing her palsy. She explained that her phone was out of charge, and asked the woman if she would call a taxi for her.

  “What’s wrong with his phone?” The woman gestured at Brody, hovering just beyond the marquee’s lights.

  “Doesn’t have one,” Molly said, and shrugged. “Says he’s a technophobe, but that doesn’t stop him playing video games with his loser buddies.”

  “Uber’s better. Cheaper,” the woman said after a moment, accessing her app with impressive speed. “There are four in the area.”

  “Okay. Whatever. I can—”

  “You can give me the cash.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Molly blanked, shook her head. “I don’t . . .” She shifted her weight from one crutch to the other. “How far is Tupelo?”

  The woman lowered her phone, her eyes floating between Molly and Brody. “Maybe a hundred miles.”

  “That’s a little far,” Molly said, thinking of the dwindling cash in Brody’s brown paper bag. “Somewhere closer. But not too close. And big enough to have a bus or train terminal.”

  “Sparrow Hill is forty-five minutes north.”

  “Okay.” Molly nodded. “Perfect.”

  The woman tapped her phone, stepped furtively toward Molly, showed her the screen. On it she’d written: Want me to call the police?? Her eyebrows twitched in Brody’s direction.