The Tracker Page 4

  By five in the morning, I’d decided what to do. After making sure there was no alarm or security cameras, using the same metal shard from before, I picked the lock to the back door of the convenience store, found a phone on a desk in a tiny back office, and dialed 9-1-1. I could not let this go any further on my own. It would be an absolute zoo, a media circus, and I would be wrapped up in the very middle of it. My life would be flipped upside down. But Rick was dead. And so was the woman. I would not be next without someone else knowing about it. I would not let the trail end with me. The phone rang once and then an emergency dispatcher was on the line.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

  “I need to see a police officer right away.”

  “What is your location?”

  I gave her the name of the convenience store.

  “Sir, what is your emergency?”

  “Just get someone here fast.”

  I hung up. I had no desire to explain myself over the phone. I’d wait to speak with a police officer in person. I considered what all I would tell them. Where would I start? I decided I would begin with the woman at the motel and work my way forward from there. Let the chips fall where they may.

  A standard white police car with City of Boerne painted on the side arrived two minutes later. This was a small town. Probably not a lot of 911 calls during the middle of the night. By now, I’d made my way to the front of the convenience store and was just waiting outside the dark front door. A short, squatty man in police uniform got out, ambled toward me. He had curly brown hair, looked to be in his forties, and was about fifty pounds overweight. His gut hung over the front of his uniform belt. But he was a cop. And for maybe the first time in my life, it was good to see a cop of any shape or size.

  “You call 9-1-1?” he demanded.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “I may have seen something. I did see something.”

  “Something? Like what? UFO? Ghosts?” He smirked.

  “No, sir. A murder.”

  He furrowed his brow and studied me for a moment. “A murder, huh? Where?”

  “Up the road. America’s Best Value Inn.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a long story, sir. I ran. Can I just go show you what I saw?”

  He nodded. “Yes, son, you’d better.”

  I rode in the back of the Boerne patrol car like a criminal. But I didn’t fault Officer Barker — according to his name badge — for not really trusting me. I was being sly with information, shifty. But I wondered if there was still a way to get the police involved and somehow get myself out of this mess as well. I had not yet mentioned a word about Lucas McCallister. I wasn’t ready to throw that hand grenade just yet; I only mentioned being at the motel and seeing a man and a woman struggle in the motel room. He watched me carefully in his rearview mirror the entire drive over. I tried not to make eye contact. I wondered if he noticed the blood on my shirt. Or the dozen scrapes on my face.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I felt my heart begin to race again. The Escalade was gone. This made me uneasy. We pulled up into the parking spot directly in front of Room 113.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. I was fine with that.

  Barker got out, circled the police car, approached the front door. A motel clerk was waiting for him. A dispatcher had called over in advance. I could see that the curtains were now fully closed over the window and the lights were out in the room. Again, this made me feel uneasy. Barker and the motel clerk exchanged brief words; I saw the motel clerk shrug, and then Barker used a fist to knock firmly on the door three times. No answer. He glanced back at me. Three more firm raps. No response. The motel clerk pulled out a set of keys and opened the door for the officer. Barker pulled out his revolver, took a slow step inside. The motel clerk waited outside. I saw the light come on inside the room. Ten seconds later, Barker stepped back out and motioned with a firm wave of his hand for me to join him.

  I climbed out of the back of the vehicle, took hesitant steps toward him.

  Barker didn’t look happy.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  He opened the door, led me inside. The room was completely clean. I mean spotless. Like no one had been in it in weeks. The bed was made perfect, the pillows perfect, the furniture all in perfect place. Even more stunning, the carpet was scrubbed completely clean. Not a spot on it. There was no sign of blood or vomit or any of it. They had somehow scrubbed the room clean in a matter of hours. In the middle of the night. I stood right over the spot where the blonde had laid motionless. But there was not even a hint of a stain on the tan carpet beneath my shoes. Not a nick on the TV dresser where her head had collided so violently.

  “Have you been doing drugs, son?” Barker asked me, filling up the doorway with his substantial girth.

  I turned. “No, sir, I swear it all happened just like I said.”

  “In this room? Earlier this evening?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir. This is the room.”

  For a second, I wondered. Had I lost my mind? Was it a different room?

  I suddenly felt the urge to run again. They had cleaned the room spotless in a matter of hours. There was no blood. No body. No sign of any struggle.

  “Go wait for me in the car,” Barker said. It was an order and not a request.

  I stepped past him and with unsteady legs, I slid into the backseat of the police car again. I hunkered down low, wondered about my next move. I was sure Barker would drive me directly down to the station now. I’d be asked a lot of questions. Should I take him by my motel room? Show him what happened there first? Then I wondered if we’d even find anything. Was it already scrubbed clean, too? Perhaps I should just say I did take some drugs and needed to sleep it off. Maybe they’d let me sober up for the night in the safe confines of a city jail cell. Or was anywhere safe? I watched as Officer Barker stood in the doorway of the motel room, taking notes on a small pad in his chubby hand. Suddenly, the radio squawked inside the police car. A police dispatcher, reporting a new crime. I heard something about a dead body, so I perked up. “Suspect is twenty-five-year-old Samuel Callahan of Washington, DC. Last seen on foot in blue jeans and dark button down shirt.” It took my breath away. Had the dispatcher really just said my name?

  I leaned forward, tried to hear more of what was being announced across the police scanner. And that’s when I noticed my driver’s license photo flash in full and vivid color on the computer screen in the front seat of the police car. I quickly put it together. Rick must have been found in my motel room. I was a suspect? And then I thought of what I was suddenly up against, how Room 113 had been wiped clean, how I had been found so quickly, and there was no doubt in my mind that my new enemy had set multiple courses of action to find me and bring me down. Including framing me for the murder of my friend.

  Barker stepped inside Room 113 again, out of view. The motel clerk had walked up to the front of the motel. I knew it was time to go. Time to run. The police were no longer an option for me. I slid out the opposite side of the police car, shut the door silently behind me, made sure Barker was still inside the room, then for the second time in five hours, I sprinted through the parking lot of America’s Best Value Inn.

  SIX

  Saturday, 6:01 a.m.

  Boerne, Texas

  2 days, 17 hours, 59 minutes to Election Day

  My new ride was a plain ‘87 Chevy Silverado, light gray, nothing fancy, to avoid any unwanted attention. I didn’t even have to hotwire it. The driver’s door was unlocked and the key was in the visor. This was Boerne, Texas, after all. Front doors were still left unlocked. Kids played on the sidewalks unmonitored.

  I was ten minutes outside of town at a convenience store, spending my last few dollars on coffee and a couple of granola bars, when I suddenly saw my face splash across the TV screen behind the front counter. It was the six o’clock early morning NBC newscast out of San Anton
io, reporting an overnight murder in a motel room in Boerne. The first murder reported in the city in eight years. Fortunately, the young clerk looked half asleep and wasn’t paying too much attention as I dropped down my five, but I felt the wind knocked out of me.

  My photo was gone seconds later and the TV flashed to a young female reporter standing outside my motel room in front of yellow crime scene tape. It was still dark out. Police were moving about behind her. Crime scene investigators were reporting that drugs were found in the room. Drugs? They had eliminated evidence of the first murder and then framed me for Rick’s murder. All my belongings were inside that room. My bag filled with my clothes, my underwear, my socks, my books, my toothbrush, my laptop. I wondered if they would find my phone. Or was it in other hands now?

  I got my change, turned, and noticed a red-haired woman who reeked of cigarettes standing behind me. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, and she seemed to take a double glance at me. I desperately tried to look casual, gave a half smile, and headed for the door. I took several deep breaths, kept a calm pace, and made my way to the truck. I slid the granola bars into the pocket of the tan hunting jacket that I had found inside the truck. The box of hair dye I had stolen was stashed in the other pocket. I was on my most serious crime spree since my teenage years.

  I started up the Chevy and backed out of the parking spot. I noticed the redhead watching me through the front glass doors. She seemed to be saying something to the store clerk.

  From that point forward, I needed to be more careful.

  I had to go off the grid, completely underground.

  Fortunately, I’d done it before. Hell, I’d spent most of my youth off the grid.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Thirteen

  Denver, Colorado

  I stared through the bushes at the shiny red Corvette. A kid’s dream car. I’d spotted it several times driving around the block near the Jeffreys’ dump the past month. My fourth foster home in three years. A dozen foster homes overall. I should get a set of steak knives or something. How was a thirteen-year-old kid like me supposed to find any stability in life or trust anyone when bounced around like that? There were three other kids in the home with me, all younger. Two were brothers. All abandoned. Since I was the oldest, old man Jeffrey made me do all the housework by myself. I swear he’d taken me in just to have his own personal slave. But he’d hit me only once, which wasn’t bad compared to some of the other homes.

  I was counting the days until I could go out on my own. I’d met several other guys a few years older than me who seemed to be just fine living on the streets. Hustling and making it happen. No one bossing them around. Free to do what they please. My time was coming soon. Maybe tonight.

  The Corvette was parked outside a duplex, next to a brown Jeep Wrangler. There was a light on in the duplex window. It was nearing eleven o’clock. I had bounced out of the bedroom window that I shared with the three other boys an hour ago. A man on a mission. I felt like a man tonight. A guy three years older than me named Mickey had given me instructions, tools, and even showed me how to do this properly.

  I watched the street for a few more minutes. Traffic had crawled to a stop. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed settled down for the night. I knew my time was nearing. I’d been casing this for weeks. Then I noticed the light go out in the window of the duplex. Right on time. I made sure the laces were tied tightly on my worn black Nikes, a pair a size too small; I’d cut open the ends and wrapped them with duct tape. I pulled the black hood of my ratty sweatshirt up over my head. I felt surprisingly calm. I inhaled deeply, exhaled. Then I stepped out from around the bushes and walked straight up the cracked sidewalk to the driveway of the duplex. The Corvette was sparkling. The big dude with the mullet and handle-bar mustache washed it like every day. I couldn’t blame him. It was a beautiful ride.

  In my right sweatshirt pocket, I felt my fingers grip around the homemade snake rake lock pick made out of a small hacksaw blade that Mickey had given to me. He encouraged me to start small, like in the junkyard, get some practice. But that had never been my style. I stood five feet behind the sports car for thirty seconds, one last gut check, one last stare into the dark window of the duplex. Then I stepped around the back bumper, squatted by the driver’s door, and pulled out my tools. With my left hand, I lifted a small metal circle that I’d use to balance the lock pick tool while inside the lock. I worked swiftly. I knew the car alarm was not set. This was my sixth time hiding in the bushes in the past two weeks. The first five times, mustache guy had beeped the alarm. Tonight, he had not. I was determined he would pay for it.

  I pressed the metal circle to the door, encompassing the lock. Then I stuck the lock pick into the hole and began raking it back and forth, just like I was taught. I could visualize the mechanics inside the lock. I had the door open within forty-five seconds. Not bad for a thirteen-year-old. My adrenaline was pumping. I slipped inside the vehicle and dipped under the dash. Mickey only had to show me how to do this one time. I’d always had some kind of weird photographic memory. I popped the plastic covering under the steering wheel and quickly pulled down the bundle of electrical wires. My hands were so steady it almost freaked me out. I separated the correct wire bundle for battery, ignition, and starter. I stripped the wire with another tool, pulled them apart, then after taking another breath, I sparked two wires together. Again, I could see Mickey in my mind, showing me exactly how to do this. It took three sparks and then the Corvette suddenly started up.

  Now my heart was hammering double time. It was loud. The engine rumbled.

  I was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on the shifter.

  I’d never driven a stick shift, but I’d watched a video online. I’d actually only driven twice in my life. But neither of those cars were stolen. And neither time did I have an angry looking bare-chested man chasing after me, as I did now. He was in the doorway of the duplex, in nothing but boxers, yelling a string of curse words. I hit the clutch, shifted into gear, hit the gas. The Corvette exploded in reverse, nearly causing me to knock myself out on the steering wheel. Then I shifted into gear again, and raced the Vette down the neighborhood street, the man chasing after me with bare feet. But I was a goner. The sports car was everything I’d hoped. So powerful. Like sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet, I imagined.

  I turned the steering wheel, hit the gas again, burst down a side road.

  I had no plans from there. I just wanted to see if I could do it. Just wanted to test myself. See if I was ready to go on my own. But I was definitely going to have as much fun as possible in the process. I turned down more streets. I was a bit clunky with the clutch and gears at times, and jerked myself around a bit, but when I got going, it was the thrill ride I’d dreamed about for two weeks. I found the main road, a long clearing with nothing but blinking yellow lights, and I pushed the pedal down to the floor. I was nearing eighty in a thirty-five zone when I saw it parked at a gas station. It was a blur, but I clearly spotted two men in uniform in the front seat. The red and blue lights exploded with a siren a second later.

  Now I was scared. This wasn’t part of the plan. I was only going to go for a spin, drop it somewhere. No harm, no foul. I wasn’t looking for a car chase. I spotted the string of warehouses up on my left and yanked the wheel into an empty parking lot. I slammed on the brakes, left the car running, hopped out. The police car with its lights blaring was right behind me, tearing down the street. I ran toward the buildings. They looked abandoned. A faded sign said something about steel manufacturing. The glass door to one building was unlocked, so I raced inside. I could hear the police car slide to a stop right outside. Two doors opened and slammed, then I heard feet on gravel. I darted through what looked like a former front office, though it was empty now, through two more metal doors down a long hallway, and into a giant warehouse. It was dark. The lights were out. But there were a few windows at the top that let in some light from outside. I could tell there were more tha
n a dozen tall rows of massive metal industrial shelves, some still filled with abandoned wooden crates.

  I sprinted down a row in the middle, zigzagged my way to the very back wall.

  I heard the door to the warehouse open and shut. Then the sound of one of the officers.

  “Police! Step out now if you don’t want to get shot!”

  I saw two powerful flashlight beams. The officers separated and took opposite rows. They were headed in my direction. It was darker in the back of the warehouse. I was having a difficult time finding my way around, but I spotted a metal exit door. I thought it was probably a back exit. But when I got there, it was locked with a thick chain. I turned around. The beams from the flashlights were getting closer. They had me surrounded. I was about to be busted. Sent to juvie. I couldn’t believe it. Right when I was about to gain my freedom. Screw that. I think I would’ve preferred to be shot than go through the court system.

  But then something happened. It was odd. I felt everything suddenly go silent around me, as if I had put in earplugs. I could tell one of the officers was yelling again, but it sounded muffled. I could only hear my own heartbeat. It had seemed to slow down to a very steady thumping. My vision felt more focused. I looked over, spotted the metal ladder. Fifteen feet away, attached to the third row away from me. It went straight to the top of the shelf. Twenty feet up. From there, my eyes followed a trail to the left of that shelf. It stopped five feet from a metal balcony. Looked like an upstairs office suite or something. Then I could suddenly visualize a hallway to an emergency exit out back. I wondered if I was tripping on a drug or something. It was so weird. Like an imaginary mapping system in my mind. But I hadn’t done any drugs the past two weeks. I’d wanted to be clear-headed for this.