Trailing - WC 11/28/12

It was another day to make another dollar. I was making another routine stop at the local library to pick up, I assumed, one of the small towns’ little old ladies, or the “LOL”s. I had taken to using text speech as fare descriptions, a cheap but effective way to keep myself entertained. Ironically, LOLs were usually pretty hilarious. Idling outside of the neighborhood LOL hangout I hoped it would be either Mrs. Ronson or that cute single mom that called every once in a while. Both ladies were good company and easy on the eyes, as a 45 year old terminal bachelor I got my jollies where I could.

Deep in the midst of a fantasy that involved Mrs. Ronson and cute mom sharing a cab fare together, I failed to notice who had approached the car until they were sliding into my back seat. I rotated in my seat to greet my customer and noticed that the tiny slim figure was definitely not an LOL or a young mother, I wasn’t even sure she was a teenager. “Hey kid, you lo…” She interrupted my question by flashing a wad of cash and speaking simultaneously.

“You see that restaurant across the street? In about five minutes, a man is going to come out of that restaurant, and I want you to follow him.” I should have laughed and threw her out the car. I should’ve told her it’s not smart or safe going around throwing dead presidents around. Even in a small town like this greed could bring out the evil in lesser people. Something about her gaze stopped me. Those deep brown almond shaped eyes held more mystery and knowledge than someone her age should possess. I took a closer look and saw something else in those old soul irises, a thinly veiled sense of emergency and desperation. I knew if I refused her she’d find another, probably more dangerous way to get what she wanted. Convinced I was doing the right thing I decided to humor her.

“That’s quite the task you’ve set for me, haven’t had a use for my trailing skills in quite some time now.” The dry look in response said she recognized a dull joke when she heard one. She certainly wasn’t gullible I’d give her that, but I wasn’t a spring chicken, she could run for it soon as we reached her destination. “Half now, half when we get there, that’s reasonable for such a request and given your….how old are you anyway?”

In answer she expertly counted out five 20s. “That should be enough to instill a bit of confidence and keep questions to a bare minimum.” I took the money, noticing that what she gave me was barely a fifth of what she still held. I assessed her clothes, typical jeans, non-descript black sweatshirt and blue Chucks to complete the plain ensemble. She had to be one of the local rich kids, probably had both parents working at the local Medical Center, she definitely talked like money even if she didn’t dress the part. “He’s leaving soon, can we go please?” She eyed me with a raised eyebrow as if to say ‘Are you sure you can handle this?’ I scowled at her unspoken query.

“Put your seatbelt on,” I grumbled “Don’t want to get arrested for not securing a minor. That’d certainly put a kink in your plans.” She didn’t argue and quickly fastened herself in before demurely placing her hands in her lap, maintaining focus on the restaurant. I followed her lead and set my sights on the small diner. In less than a minute a tall medium build male in his mid to late twenties sauntered out of the restaurant and strode over to a nice motorcycle. Discarding the toothpick between his teeth he donned his helmet and rumbled onto the main road. I pulled out after him leaving a reasonable distance between us.

“Don’t lose him,” she spoke urgently.

“I’m not, don’t want him to know we’re following him though do you?”

“It’s a 15 mile stretch of land before the next major turn off, he won’t assume you are following him unless you turn every time he does. Besides he’s very…” She didn’t have to finish that sentence, I’m pretty sure she was going to say ‘fast’ or maybe ‘crazy’. Diner man chocked his throttle, pumped out a small wheelie and took off at a high rate of acceleration. Cursing under my breath I pushed my little taxi up to 80 miles an hour and there was still nearly a quarter mile’s distance between us. “Faster,” she demanded.

“We’re in a taxi, not an Audi, should have hired a faster car to tail this psycho.” She went quiet; I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw intense concentration on her little face. Her full lips tight with perseverance, if her brows furrowed any more I was sure she was going to give herself an aneurysm, quite a feat in someone so young. “You should slow down,” she breathed.

I looked at the road just in time to see the smoke emanating from our target's motorcycle. The two-wheeled death machine had slowed considerably. I had to practically slam on my brakes to avoid a near collision. The cyclist rolled over to the side of the road in time for me to ride by unscathed. “Stop!” she practically screamed. Instinctually I pulled over a few hundred yards ahead of the now stranded diner man. “We have to pick him up.” I shook my head.

“I don’t care how much money you throw at me, he’s not getting in this car unless you tell me why and how old you are.” She studied me from the back seat for a moment, she must have seen the determination in my face because she sighed and answered.

“My name is Ana Foster, I’m 13 years old and that man is the only one who can keep me alive.”