When I reach the main road I suddenly slam to a halt, unable to decide which direction to go. In my panic to reach safety, I have been laboring under the assumption that I would drive straight back to my hotel and lock the deadbolt. But it dawns on me now that my plan may be flawed. There’s no guarantee I’d be safe at the hotel. God knows it isn’t exactly the fanciest or most secure accommodation I’ve stayed in. And besides, if I am being followed — and I feel pretty damn confident I am — do I really want to lead them straight to where I’ll be sleeping tonight? The thought of those guys hounding me, maybe chaining me up in my own hotel room, is enough to make me gulp.
Hell no. Plan B.
Instead of taking a right, I slam the gas pedal down and spin the wheel to the left, the tires squealing and emitting the sour odor of burnt rubber as I turn the car in the general direction of the coast. I don’t know what I’ll find there, but some ancient, long-buried memory reminds me that there are usually cops stationed out by the water. By the docks.
I can hardly remember it now, as so much time has passed and I’ve done such a good job of burying my past self. Thinking of the docks now — it’s like looking through a foggy window.
Running up and down the beach, chasing the seagulls and singing old Britney Spears songs from the CD with the flower on it. The memory of the time I scraped my knee on a piece of driftwood and an older neighbor girl scared the hell out of me telling me I was going to get tetanus and die. The sound of my father’s voice, buffeted by the coastal breeze, calling out to tell me it was time to go home. That lump in my throat is getting all too familiar. I’m going to have to let myself break down and cry sometime soon.
And a boy… a boy with scraggly dark hair and a charismatic smile. His hands plunging down into the blue depths, grasping for my arms just as my chest goes tight and the world starts to fall into darkness around me. His fingers locking around my wrists, tugging me up out of the churning white foamy water and urging me to breathe, breathe, it’ll be okay, just breathe. The tickle of sand dragging along my spine, my wet clothes weighing me down. My eyes blinking open and burning with saltwater, focusing hazily on the stormy, purple sky high above me and then closing again just as the boy whispers, “You’re safe now.”
I’m so far away, so deep in these distant thoughts I have not visited in years, that I have to slam on the brakes to stop the car when it pulls into the nearly-empty parking lot near the entrance to the docks. The sky overhead is getting cloudy and a very light rain starts to drizzle as I catch sight of the police car down the way from me. I hop out of my car and barrel through the rain to tap on the tinted window of the squad car, hoping the cop inside doesn’t think I’m some crazed homeless person trying to start something.
I realize now how ridiculous I must look: eyes wide with panic, my whole body woefully overdressed for the occasion and underdressed for the weather, my feet bare and blue except for the holey hosiery. Slowly, the car window rolls down with a faint buzz, to reveal a middle-aged cop with a shaved head giving me a dubious look.
“Anything the matter, ma’am?” he asks flatly.
“Y-yes, sir,” I begin, my voice wavering. “I think I’m being followed.”
The cop leans out of his window and looks around the empty lot. “By who?”
“Some guys. From… from a warehouse.”
At this, the cop’s attention flicks back to me instantly, his eyes suddenly full of interest.
“Hold on a sec’, miss,” he says. He leans away and says something into a receiver, too low and soft for me to catch the words. Then he gets out of the car to stand up in front of me. He’s barrel-chested and paunchy, with a bit of a beer gut. He glances down and does a double-take at my lack of shoes before fixing me with a raised eyebrow.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I, um, took them off when I was running.” It sounds even stupider out loud.
“You must be freezing. Here, hop in the back,” he offers, opening the car door so I can slip inside. I hesitate at first, but then I slide into the seat to get out of the rain.
He shuts the door and stands outside, speaking quietly into the receiver. Over the gentle patter of the rain I can’t make out a single word. I hope that he’s calling for backup. For several minutes we wait like this, and I surreptitiously take out of my cell phone. It doesn’t look to be damaged or anything, but when it hits me that I totally forgot to record any of the scene I witnessed at the warehouse I want to smack myself in the face.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this investigative journalism thing, after all.