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Cassie then spent the next half hour or so cleaning me up. Trying to figure out which part of the crust on my skin was me and which part of someone else. I spent most of the time sleeping. That is, until she washed my hair.

“Jesus,” I said. “Not this.”

“Sorry again. That was me, no doubt.”

“Just for the record, what did you hit me with?” I asked her.

“Some kind of metal bat, I think.”

“A bat?”

“They had it by the back door.”

“Like a baseball bat?”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

“I’m so sorry, Will.”

“Will,” I said. “You called me Will. And referred twice to me as your husband. I’m a lucky man.”

“Hardly. Especially after I’ve treated you today.”

“I forgive you.”

She smiled.

“Who were those guys anyway?”

“Take your pick. Could have been somebody I don’t even know. By the way, how am I?”

“Actually, you’re not in bad shape considering. No broken bones. A couple of scratches and scrapes but nothing a bit of alcohol and a band-aid couldn’t cure.”

“I’m hungry,” I said. “Restaurant in this place?”

“Chinese take out next door.”

“Want me to get us some?” I asked.

“Not until I get you some clean clothes. You look okay, but I’m not letting you out of here until you’re properly dressed.”

“You get it then. Any liquor stores nearby?”

“In New York City? You kidding me?”

“I haven’t had a drink in a month. Don't need much, but a good swig of Beam would taste nice right about now.”

“I’ll be back in a few moments. Don’t go to sleep,” she said. And left me there.

And, of course, asleep I went. Lying there t=on that wonderful soft nineteenth-century bed.

By meal’s end, I actually began feeling human again. Not ready to go anywhere. But on the mend. She, on the other hand, looked beyond tired. We both had to get some sleep.

“Got you some clothes,” she said. “An all night clothing store. Can you believe it?”

“I can believe just about anything in New York,” I said.

“So what do you think of this,” she asked, parading around in a white dress.

“I think you could have been a bit more selective.”

“Not for you. Me.”

“Makes you look more beautiful than anyone has the right to be.”

She smiled. A lot better on the run with her than on my own.

“These are for you.” And she dumped a pair of what looked like used Levis and a couple of colorful shirts on my lap. Looked clean at least.

“Did you buy a car while you were at it?”

“Funny.”

“Tomorrow. Not tonight. I have other plans for tonight.”

Given our current state of physical not well being, I assumed such things were well beyond consideration. At the same time, maybe she had a good idea there after all.

She gave me a wicked smile and turned her back to me to change into her white dress. I wanted to watch. Every part of me did. Except my baseball batted head. I lay my head back. Just for a second. Just to get my wits back together again.

“Not now,” I said, barely realizing I had somehow changed stereotypical roles in our bedroom.

But she insisted. Kept shaking me by the shoulders.

My head still ached, but for the most part I felt okay. The room seemed awful bright for the middle of the night.

“There’s a cop car parked right down below us,” she whispered. Loud enough so I could hear above the city’s roar.

“It’s morning?” I said.

“It is,” she said. “And there’s this cop car see. And it’s parked right in front of the building in which you are laying in bed. Get the picture?”

I did. Sat up. Shouldn’t have. At least not so quickly. Laid back down.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Sure. Just give me a minute or two to align the rotors.” The room swam around me a couple of times. Then it settled down.

“Okay, now. What makes you think the cop’s after us?”

“Isn’t that why we’re running?”

Fair question. At the same time if we ran every time we saw a cop car we wouldn’t get very far.”

“If we run every time we see one,” I said, “we might start giving them a reason to suspect us of something. Maybe we should see what this one wants before we jump the gun and make things work.”

She looked at me to make sure it was me she was talking to and not my alter ego, shaken lose by the baseball bat.

“Okay,” she finally said.

Then someone knocked at the door.

“See,” she said. As if that confirmed something. “What do I do?”

“Answer it?” I said.

“What if it’s the cops?”

“Invite them in. I’m too tired to argue at this point. If they’ve traced us here, then they deserve to catch me.”

“Are you serious? Do you know what trouble you’re in?”

The knock at the door again.

“I know. But would you have me do?”

“I don't know. Get behind the door and bop them maybe?”

Bop them?

Another knock.

“Just get the door. Let’s worry about it after we know who it is.”

As she went to open the door, a male voice said, “Breakfast, M’am.”

Cassie looked back at me. Like it was my fault. Then opened the door.

A young man about half my age wheeled in a cart with goodies on it and a fresh newspaper. Smiled at me lying in the bed only half dressed. Gave me a know it all wink. If only he knew.

“Give him a big tip, dear,” I said.

The growling look she gave me then told me I might be overstepping my bounds. But she gave him a tip. And by the look on his face, a good one at that.

She brought the cart over and we looked at a buffet of goodies that didn’t look too bad. While she dolled it out, I took a look at the paper. Nothing in it a first glance about me. But then I took a closer look at the bottom of the front page. Apparently, at least according to the Times, two gangs had had an all out fight in an alley in northern Queens yesterday afternoon.

“Look,” I said. “I’m a gang.”

She took the paper from me.

“At least you didn’t kill anyone.”

“Not that I wasn’t trying.”

She grimaced.

“Sorry,” I said, “when it gets that tough, I’m that outnumbered, and no where to go. It’s that or be killed myself.”

She smiled.

“You don’t think I’m a fucking serial killer now, do you?”

“Not the serial killer part, no. But I was kind of hoping you might be the first part of that though.”

And the damn burst. No holding back now. Well fed, well slept, injuries mostly healed, and two relatively young people alone together in a hotel room with a soft bed taking up most of the space. As Woody Allen quoted Balzac saying, ‘There goes another novel.’

“You’re not really going to steal a car, are you?”

“Got any better ideas?”

“Rental? We still have enough money left.”

“Remember, though, we’ve got to eat, get gas, sleep somewhere Rentals cost big bucks.”

“Do they have Rent A Heaps in New York City?”

“They have those everywhere.”

“Worked before.”

“Yeah, but not to Canada.”

“Why’s Canada so important?”

“Not wanted up there, for one. I don’t think that Masters will consider that as a possibility. He’ll think I’m going back to Cassie number three.”

“What do you two have going anyway?”

“Nothing. She let me stay in her father’s cabin. That’s all. That’s it.”

“So you say.”

“And,” changing the subject, “the other guys, the competitors to Masters, couldn’t find us if we gave them directions.”

“Ergo, Canada’s best.”

“We can work our way west toward North Dakota. No one would think of us taking that route. Once back in town we could hide out under Patton’s care and I could finish and release the antivirus that would put it all right again. And put Masters and his group where they belong.”

“Behind bars.”

“Exactly.”

“When do we leave?”

“As soon as we get dressed. Check out. And find a car.”

“Got it pretty well figured, don’t you?” she said.

“You know. For the first time in all this mess, I think I do.”

42.
We were walking along a small one-way side-street named Catton. Cassie looked radiant. I felt radiant. The sky was blue, the sun shown, and the day was radiant. Good God, I thought, I’m turning into bad poetry.

“So what now, genius?” she said.

“Need a hardware store.”

“A hardware store?”

“Yes. Not a big one. Just a hardware store.”

“Like that?” she said, pointing directly across the street. A small hardware store.

“Exactly like that,” I said, and walked her through the light traffic. Jay walking’s a family tradition.

“What are we looking for?”

“We’re looking for a Phillip’s Head screwdriver.”

“Oh.” I guess she was getting used to strange answers to her questions. She’d known me a while by now.

We entered the small store, probably a makeover of someone’s living room. Way to make enough to pay the rent.

I found what I wanted almost immediately and headed for the counter. Cassie in tow.

We were the only business in sight.

“Pay the man,” I told her.

“Pay the man?” she said, looking none too happy about it.

“You’ve got the money.”

“Oh, yeah. Well then here. You take it.” And she handed me what was left of the roll of bills that Cassie number three had given me.

I paid the man. And we stepped back out onto Catton Street. Boulevard. Way. Whatever. The sign had only said Catton.

“What next,” she asked.

“We find a long-term garage.”

She looked at me long and hard.

“No choice,” I said. “We can’t buy a car. Can’t afford to rent one either. Even Rent a Wreck would cost us more than we have.”

She continued staring.

“Look,” I said, aware of her problem, “it’s this or turn ourselves in at the nearest police station. Better that than Masters. But I’d a rather lot give running a try. And I’ll make sure the owner of whatever we borrow,” and I gave that word extra emphasis, “will get back to it’s owner with cash to spare and a near as possible identical version of what he or she has now.”

She still looked skeptical.

“Look for a place that rents by the week or month. We need to find something that looks like the owner won’t be back for a while. Maybe it’ll get returned before he or she even knows it’s been taken.”

And so we looked. We weren’t exactly in the right district for such a thing, so it took a while. As we walked, Cassie continued to grill me on the propriety of what we, I, was about to do.

“Won’t a stolen car be as dangerous as just walking down to the subway, a cab company, train, airport, whatever?”

“No,” I said. “Not the way I’m going to do it.”

“And which way would that be?”

“Watch and you’ll find out.”

“So, you know how to hotwire a car?”

“Actually, yes.”

“And how, dare I ask, did you come by this knowledge?”

“When I was a kid. Friend of mine and I liked to ride in vettes.”

“Vettes?”

“Corvettes. You know, those fancy sixties cars that Chevy made back in the day.”

“You’re beginning to talk like a hood,” she said.

We locked eyes. She was clearly not in favor of our next move. But hadn’t figured out an alternate strategy.

“He and I both learned how to do it together. Got to be pretty good. And what we did was a lot like what I plan to do now. Take it for a ride and then return it to its rightful owner before they ever know it’s gone.”

“So, we looking for a vette?”

“Not necessarily. Just something from the last century will do.”

“Why that?”

“They’re building them a bit harder to wire these days. I’m sure it’s possible, but I wouldn’t know how. They put all manner of hidden devices in impossible to get to places to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

“And you know this how?”

“I keep up with the trade secrets.”

“Good to know. In case I need some groceries and am out of cash and forgot my credit cards.”

“You have credit cards?”

“Not on me, jackass. They took my purse when the kidnapped me.”

“Right.”

“There, on the corner.”

I looked and she was right. An underground garage with prices starting weekly and going all the way to a year. Who’d want their cars garaged for a year?

“Okay,” I said. “See the man in the booth at the front?”

“Yes.”

“He probably doesn’t care diddly about us walking in to retrieve our car, only about us paying when we leave. But some of these guys pay attention. We don’t look like someone he recognizes, he might get suspicious.”

“Why don’t you go over and talk to him for a minute? Get his attention.”

“How do I do that?”

“Why not undo that first button on your blouse and ask him something about the score to the game last night.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“And quite a use it will be.”

“What if there wasn’t a game last night?”

“Christ, Cassie, this is New York City. There’s always a game last night. Just keep him occupied. He’ll forget you’re not one of his regulars and won’t pay me any attention as I slip by in the shadows. You join me, and we’re in.”

She looked at me strangely again.

“You sure you’re a college professor.”

I smiled.

She walked toward the guy in the booth and I squiggled up against a brick wall next to the driveway. When I saw her talking to him, I walked softly by and he, as predicted, paid me no mind whatsoever.

She joined me a few seconds later.

“I feel like a piece of meat you just threw out the door to the neighborhood dogs.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But it worked.”

She wouldn’t look at me. And she’d redone the button.

“Follow me. When I find the one, you take the screwdriver and look for a car just like the one I pick. Same model. Same color.”

“Should I know why?”

“No.”

Before she could respond, I saw it. A red vette from the seventies. Not a convertible.

And she took off walking fast, looking everywhere for a lookalike.

43.
When she left me, I took a good look at the car. A stand out, sure enough. Get everyone’s attention. But nothing beyond that. I got to work.

Funny, I thought, that Cassie didn’t ask me how I’d get into the thing to hotwire it. Or if I did hotwire it through the engine, how we’d get into it in the first place. She needn’t have anyway. I’d long ago learned the techniques for that. Particularly vettes. Even hardtops, though the convertibles were easier.

By the time she’d returned and told me she’d found one over about two rows, I gave her the screwdriver and told her to remove its plates and bring them over to me. She got the picture quickly and off she went.

Hotwiring a corvette was so easy that it always amazed me to see they never figured that out. By the time she returned, the engine was purring and all that we had left was to replace the plates, pay the bill, and get the hell out of Dodge.

I checked the gas. Full. Nothing was blinking except the seatbelt monitor. The mileage was less than forty grand. Virtually a new car as far as I was concerned. A red vette. Boy did that take me back to my teen years.

We changed the plates, put the old ones in the trunk that opened with a pedal on the driver’s side, and I put her in the driver’s seat ready for lift off. She looked at me as if to say ‘Why me?’ then she got it. I had no driver’s license. I was wanted for multiple homicides. I was recognizable.

I looked at the ticket. Been there only a couple of days. Somebody probably off in Europe. Might not be back for it in a month or two. Perfect.

She backed it out, revved it some more, and off we went to pay the man.

By six in the evening we were headed toward Albany and on our way to Montreal, Canada. Still a lot to figure out, but at least we’d gotten through the hard part. I checked the registration in the glove compartment. Jack Sonnerson. He looked young and on his way up. His choice of car proved it.

Now we had to figure out how to get into Canada without passports. I’d forgotten that would be a problem. “Do you have EDL?” I asked Cassie.

“Enhanced Driver’s License? Yes.”

Thank God. That took care of her. Worked in place of a passport. I, of course, had nothing whatsoever. Passengers needed them too. I quickly did a mental calculation if the vette’s trunk could hold a man of my size. Couldn’t remember. Some models you could push behind the passenger seat and climb into the rear space from there. Only on the coupe models. I tried it. Perfect. I could sneak in there while we crossed and if we didn’t get a bean counter at the border, we’d be okay. I explained the situation to Cassie.

“I don’t have to unbutton my blouse again, do I?”

“Might be a good idea,” I told her.

She glared at me as the last of the day’s light disappeared.

“So tell me about the other two Cassie’s,” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Like what did you do?”

“Like nothing,” I told her.

“Absolutely nothing?”

“Cassie number one and I escaped together. Spent most of the time getting lost and then attending to her meth problem. Cassie number three is a nutcase. Supposedly a waitress, but really a millionaire. She allowed me the use of her father’s cabin. Visited me once to ask me for dinner. But nothing happened except she asked me to leave.”

“And what did you do to deserve that?”

“I think I may have turned her down.”

“For what?”

“Let your imagination run wild.”

She had nothing to say.

“Turn off at the next off ramp,” I said.

“Why?”

She did. Came to a stop sign at the bottom of the ramp.

“What now?”

“Turn right, go a mile or two, make a U-turn, and let’s see what happens.

She did. Two cars followed us. Passed by when we made the illegal turn, and then made it themselves a hundred yards or so beyond us. Then followed us back onto the Interstate.

“We’re being followed.”

“No shit,” I said.

“What should we do?”

“Nothing for now. Just keep driving within the speed limit. They don’t seem interested in trying to catch us. Just keeping an eye open.”

“Who could have followed us?”

“Definitely not either of the gangs,” I said. “They probably have never been out of the city. Not cop cars. That leaves Masters or members of his little ensemble. Or maybe one of his competitors.”

“There’s more than one?”

“I’m not actually sure there’s even one. Could be he’s been lying. Says he’s telling the truth, but who knows.”

We drove on into the night. Going ever northward toward the border. Passing fewer and fewer cities and towns along the way.

“Once they realized our intentions to cross the border, they’ll have to do something won’t they?” Cassie asked.

“Be my guess.”

“How will they do it?”

“Don't know. Cut us off at the pass, maybe?”

“What pass?”

“Figure of speech. They’ll attempt to surround us somehow and move us over onto the shoulder. Don’t know how they’ll do that with two cars, but maybe they’re getting reinforcements. That’s why they’ve delayed so long.”

“Shouldn’t we be doing something to stop them?”

“Like what?”

“Back to that again?”

“But what can we do? If they chase us off road again, maybe they could trap us with two cars. If we speed we’re taking a chance on getting caught by the cops. All we can do is what we’re doing.”

“How far are we from the border?”

“I saw a sign back there for Pittsburgh, so maybe sixty miles. An hour at the rate we’re going.”

“Pittsburgh? Pennsylvania?”

“New York. Spelled the same though.”

We went quiet again. I was sorry to disappoint her. Not having a plan for this. But I hadn’t figured someone could find us.

She read my mind. “How did they find us?”

“Just trying to figure that out. Maybe they implanted something under my skin when I wasn’t looking.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Probably. But damned if I can figure out any other way.”

She thought about it.

“Maybe they’ve been following every step of the way.”

“We did seem to get away pretty easily,” I agreed.

Now I thought about it.

“Doesn’t matter really. They’re here now. That’s what counts.”

“Assuming it’s them.”

“Yes.”

44.
Masters had forced me to create a computer virus that would annoy the computer users of the world no end. He’d unleashed it on the world in order to sell my antivirus and make a mint. But he couldn’t unleash that because it contained a message that would more than implicate him and his scheme. I was getting away with my scheme and he seemed content to let me as long as someone kept an eye on me. What’s wrong with this picture?

I worked on that as we drove the last few miles to the border. He couldn’t have radioed ahead for them to search the car. They’d find me and the jig would be up. On all of us. Once in Canada, however, I’d be free of American police and therefore much more apt to make it to someplace I could deliver the antivirus, with his name in it, to the world’s computer users for free. What’s wrong with this picture?

Something about it stunk. Should be obvious. But it wasn’t. I had no idea what to do other than to continue with the plan.

What would I do under the circumstances? What would my greatest fear be? Getting caught. I hadn’t made any money. But getting caught would be the worst possible ending. No money and get caught. A lot worse than no money and not getting caught. Ergo, get rid of me. Do that, and at least any further problems would go away. Someone would figure out a solution to the problem. And nothing else would happen. An out of his mind hacker had done it. Oh, and yes, a computer scientist from South Dakota, a serial killer by the way, had been found dead in the Canadian woods. Probably from a self-inflicted wound. Everybody’s happy. Except me. And Cassie. Bonnie and Clyde. A double suicide. Unable to face a lifetime in prison without each other. Was that it? No matter we knew they were there. They’d follow us into the dark woods of the north country and then make it happen.

I thought it through again and then told Cassie.

“Make sense?” I asked.

“Does to me.”