Stray

         Crack. The last bolt of lightning faded behind him, accompanied shortly by faint thunder. He didn’t notice, nor did he care. The souped-up ’71 Mustang Mach 1 had kept him dry. Little would pneumonia have mattered. His problems were above such trivial worries.
         The only sounds he could hear were those of the open, lonely highway and the roaring engine, which sounded more like a wounded animal than a machine. It was more like him.
         He reached for the radio to break up the monotony but found only the empty space where it used to be. Crunching down the corner of his mouth he settled in to the droning of the road, wondering what news of him was passing on the lips of newscasters across the country. His middle fingers unconsciously tapped against the steering wheel in anxiety. The money his radio had brought had dried up long ago. Unconsciously, he rubbed his thumb against the band of gold still encircling his ring finger.
         He had no notion of how long it had been since he left. It didn’t really make a difference except in how much longer he could keep going. The sun had fallen past the horizon and the fuel gauge was dangerously low.
         It was time for another pit stop. It was more time away from the road. He wasn’t quite sure where he was headed, but he knew he had to keep going as long as possible.
         The few signs he did pass were worn and battered, covered with the spray paint trademarks of gangs and vandals.
         The exit came suddenly and abruptly in the low light. Slowing enough to make the curve, he came around to a dim stoplight. Three gas stations dotted the corners of the intersection. Up the street was a small town. The whole area was nestled in the wooded hills and hidden from the rest of the world.
         He would be safe here long enough.
         He pulled into the farthest of the gas stations, marking it apart for the noticeable lack of strong lighting. Turning off the engine with a twist of the key he stepped out of the car and unhooked the pump.
         Starting the flow of gas he casually looked around, gauging his situation. There was only one other car at the pumps, with two occupants. He watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were out of hearing range, but he really didn’t care about that. So long as no one got too close to the car he would be fine. The trunk held more than just empty promises.
         Full on fuel, he replaced the pump and closed the gas tank. Another quick look about satisfied his worries enough for him to pay for the gas.
         Reaching into his back pocket he drew out his wallet as he walked into the empty convenience store. Only the clerk was there, working the evening shift with only the small isles of snacks to accompany him.
         The clerk was leaning over the counter when he walked in. Straightening up at the sight of a customer he would have been more polite, but the long hours had taken their toll.
         Instead, the stranger just went to the counter. “Pump two,” he said in a gruff voice through teeth that hadn’t seen brush nor floss in over as many weeks.
         “That’ll be $23.17,” the clerk said, checking the price.
         Tossing a crumpled twenty and a five on the table, he dug into his pocket for the loose change but came up short.
         Taking the bills and making a vain attempt at straightening them out, the clerk counted out the meager change and handed it back over the counter. “One eighty-three,” he said.
         Without so much as a ‘thank you’ he turned and left quickly, anxious to return to his car before anyone got too close. There was only so much one could hide. He didn’t know why he had ever placed it in his trunk. He wasn’t thinking. Only longing had drove him. Longing for what could no longer be.
         Relieved to see no one had become curious about the smell emanating from the car, he started up the engine and drove off up the road a short ways to where a small restaurant lay situated. Parking in the far, darkest corner, he took a breath before getting out. Thoughts crossed his mind of spending the night or continuing on after supper. He couldn’t reach a decision immediately, so he headed into the small establishment.
         It was large enough to accommodate a decent number of patrons, but little else held for the restaurant. A row of barstools lined up to the right of the door, across the small lane from a row of booths.
         He created little stir, the light jingle of the bell sounded as he opened the door. A few raised their heads, but shortly returned to their food or other preoccupation. Only half of the seats weren’t taken. Wearily, he went over to a stool close to the middle of the counter. None of the seats looked particularly well – he suspected they had seen better days. His boots sounded obnoxiously on the grime-ridden floor. Fortunately the stool was cleaner than the rest of the establishment, which had fallen into severe disrepair.
         The waitress came by, her overdone makeup adding to her abrasive and almost horrid appearance. “Whatcha want, hon?” she asked, chewing a gob of gum as she eyed him over.
         He scanned the menu quickly, looking for something that could be served and eaten fast. “Hamburger. Plain. Rare,” he answered.
         “Anything to drink with that?” she said, glancing to her left at the dark-jacketed stranger that sat down next to him. In his mind he debated, ignoring the stranger to his right. If he kept going tonight he’d need caffeine – but he needed to rest. “Just some water.”
         Nodding with a last, disgusted look the waitress relayed the order to the cook. By himself again, he nodded his head forward, concentrating his gaze on the scratched and filthy countertop as he picked at it with a gritty fingernail. Inconspicuously he continued to watch the other patrons out of the corner of his eye as he waited for the small meal.
         Soon the waitress reappeared and slid the hot plate in front of him, placing the drink just behind it. She mumbled something before she went to help another customer, but he didn’t hear it.
         The raw burger tasted just like the restaurant looked. He forced his stomach to accept the retching mix of stale meat and the mossy filth that covered it. Downing a gulp of not-so-clean water, he worsened the taste in his mouth. Wearily, he finished the food, feeling the eyes of the stranger upon him the whole time. He was about to stand when the person next to him laid a hand on his arm. For a brief instant memory and fear flooded over him. He saw the blue flashing lights again. He felt the handcuffs against his wrists. The pain of being slammed down on the hood of a car rushed back. His perfect life crashed down again. That single, biting memory burned in his mind.
         Sweat started to push its way out. He didn’t want to relive the memory. One run-in had been bad enough. He didn’t have the strength for another.
         The stranger spoke to him. “I believe your story.”
         “What?” he replied, not sure of what was happening.
         “I was there that first night. Everyone else thought you were acting. The thing is, I know what it’s like.”
         “How can you know what it’s like? Do you know what it’s like to feel a dagger rip through your heart and cleave out your insides?” he said, feeling the ring that still rested on his finger.
         “Yes, I do,” the stranger calmly replied. “It was almost like your situation. There was nothing I could do. The only reason I didn’t get blamed was because there were other suspects. In my case the killer confessed.”
         “Do you know how I can clear everything up?”
         “You can’t. If you go back, they’re gonna lock you up for the rest of your life – if they don’t execute you.”
         “Then what do I do?”
         “Keep running. You’ve stayed ahead of them for the most part. I’m the only one that knows you’re here. It’s up to them to find the real killer.”
         Without another word – or even a look back – he left the restaurant quickly and returned to his car, leaving behind the stranger - the trusting police officer.
         Taking the advice to heart he slid the key into the ignition and started up the car. Soon he was back on the dark and empty road, fleeing.
         Someone knew the truth – he was still alone in the fight, but he had support. The sympathy replaced the need for caffeine, he felt somehow recharged despite the horrid food swelling inside. That comforted him almost as much as her gentle touch used to. A touch he would never feel again. The adrenaline that had given him a second wind now drained out at the thought.
         He would never feel her hand gliding up his arm and across his chest again. She had whispered softly in his ear for the last time. They would never lie together, holding each other in their arms. The late nights of staying up on the soft, torn couch watching M.A.S.H. were over.
         All of those memories were dust. The scripture crossed his mind: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
         At first he had cursed his situation. Then he had cursed the law. But now… There was no point. He knew that, but still he wished for something that he could do.
         For the first time in his life he was truly helpless. It worried him and infuriated him at the same time. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he pushed the pedal down closer to the floor. If he had stayed, he would be dead before they learned the truth. He would die without ever knowing the one face he longed to see. It was a longing of malicious desire. If only he could meet the true villain - for even a few minutes - and make him suffer, he would die happy.
         The thoughts had taken over his mind and he found the speedometer needle passing 120. Not wanting to get caught, he started to slow down when the blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror.
         At first he thought they were just a hallucination, created by his mind – which he knew was under terrible stress. But they continued, silent in the middle hours of night. The policeman following him had to keep the peace. At least maybe the silence’ll work in my favor...somehow...
         The officer flared his sirens briefly and spoke through the loudspeaker. “Pull over!” Sighing, he knew that since the cop had kept with him so far there was no chance of losing him. He slowed down and pulled onto the narrow shoulder.
         The policeman pulled to a stop right behind him. He sat in the cruiser for several minutes, copying down the license plate and running a background check.
         He knew it was all over when he first heard the officer’s distinct bootsteps walking up towards him. He tilted his head back and waited for those fateful words.
         “Excuse me, sir. Could you step out of the vehicle, please?”
         The officer stepped back and just as he was about to get out of the car, a pickup sped by, dangerously close. The passing vehicle threw the officer against the rugged Mustang.
         He didn’t know why he did it, but when the car passed them both so closely, he shifted gears and peeled out. He hoped the officer hadn’t called for backup – and that he wouldn’t be able to stand for a while.
         It was a cruel thought, but it was either that or a lifetime in jail at the least.
         He hadn’t seen another car on the road since. An hour passed and he began to calm down. He had debated taking a random exit, instead opting to go as far as he could as fast as possible.
         Fully recovered from the encounter, he blinked his eyes a few times and started looking for a motel for the night. Spotting a sign for one fairly soon, he slowed down to take the exit when the blue lights returned. He glanced quickly in his rearview mirror for confir-mation before abandoning the exit and returning to the highway. A double take revealed that he wasn’t being followed by a lone car, but by at least half a dozen.
         From one of the cars a voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “Pull over, now!”
         “Sorry, I already tried that,” he muttered to himself as he set in for the chase. There was no avoiding it now. He would have to outrun them.
         Flooring the gas pedal, he started to increase the distance between him and the legion of following cops.
         A gunshot into the air resounded through the broken silence of night. Sounds started up all around him in a chaotic racket. Almost simultaneously the pursuing cops turned on their sirens.
         The roaring of his engine almost drowned out the sirens.
         Almost.
         He pressed the pedal as far down as it would go, but the sirens persisted.
         Another gunshot.
         His life flashed before his eyes. A happy childhood. A happy family. A good job. A wife that had loved him. A wife he had loved.
         How had everything gone so wrong? How had his life been destroyed?
         His windshield shattered as a bullet passed through, glancing past his ear, cutting it open slightly. He leaned forward and cursed, wiping his ear and tasting the blood for him-self.
         A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He didn’t notice, but in the back of his mind he knew it was going to end soon. For better or for worse, it was going to end.
         Again the police shotgun ripped through the night, this time catching his back wheel, sending the car into a wild spin. Flipping once, it finally came to a rest near a small, wooded area twenty yards from the road.
         Shaking off the effects of the crash, he kicked open the door and ran into the cover of the woods.
         The cops arrived as he disappeared into the thicket.
         Branches clawed out in the dark at him, ripping away bits of skin and cloth. He couldn’t escape the police. They would hunt him to the end of the earth. A golden badge on a blue coat loomed in his mind’s eye. It came ever closer.
         Almost immediately he heard the pursuit pick up again. Even if he escaped, the sounds, fears and thoughts would never leave him. Adrenaline pumping through his system, he ran as fast as his legs would take him, with total disregard for the terrain.
         Treacherous roots and pitfalls plagued him, impeding his progress and denying him any chance of escape. Until, that is, he came to the barn.
         A hill separated him from the police. Out of sight for the moment, he broke the lock on the side door and slipped in. Looking around quickly, he settled in the hayloft, trying to quiet his breathing.
         He prayed they didn’t come into the barn. Apparently God wasn’t listening. Feeling more alone than ever, he watched in utter fear as the doors slid open, admitting a horde of police into the dark barn. He knew they had probably found her body in his trunk by now. He had yet to make his peace with her, and he never would if they caught him. It had been a silly argument, but he had never apologized.
         The minutes passed by as they cautiously searched every inch of the barn’s lower level. They were leaving. A veteran of the squad scuffed his shoe against the dirt floor of the barn, kicking a loose stone out into the darkness. The sorrow and pain of the years left their marks clearly on his face. It was becoming more and more impossible to succeed. No longer did they always get their man.
         He breathed a sigh of relief to see the first of them walk out the door.
         It was then that one of them spotted the hayloft.
         Damnit! He buried himself deeper in the straw, praying once again.
         Only one cop ascended the ladder to the hayloft. Walking slowly, he sprayed the meager light of his flashlight on the straw as he walked. His scrawny frame and timid stance made him feel insecure in the black shadows of the loft. Anxiety slicked his brow while nervous twitching caused the beam of light to scatter about. Three weeks on the force and he was already on a national manhunt.
         Neither could hear anything above the beating of their hearts. Sweat coated their hands.
         The policeman slowly stopped and nervously drew his gun, spotting the distinct shine of metal from beneath the hay. It was almost impossible not to see the ring in the darkness. “Mr. Harris. You’re under arrest for—” but he never finished.
         Harris stood up and ran.
         Just like before, he didn’t know why. Instinct told him to keep running, so he did.
         He leapt from the hayloft. It was the most direct route of escape, so he took it.