Jason Pinter - The Mark

“Absolutely. I’m sorry to bother you.” Wilbur hung up.

After a quick call to Hunter, he learned the school did not offer such a service, at least not one that was officially sanctioned. In other words, without a contact at the school, he was out of luck. He crossed Hunter off the list.

He phoned NYU and was connected to the Office of Student Activities.

The OSA receptionist, a bitter-sounding battle-ax of a woman, said she wasn’t allowed to offer the listings over the phone. He asked her for the address and hung up.

Traffic moved like oil through a funnel, slow and thick. He double-parked in front of the OSA and, inside, a helpful custodian directed him to the postings. Halfway down the light blue hallway, the Ringer found what he was looking for.

The portly woman seated behind a pane of glass was clearly the same person who’d refused to read him the listings over the phone. He offered a pleasant smile and picked up the listings. They were separated into two batches: red and blue. He licked his thumb and sifted through them. No dice. No cars were scheduled to leave until later in the week.

He was about to cross NYU off his list when, on a whim, he walked up to the receptionist and pulled out Henry Parker’s photo, cropped from the newspaper. He gently rapped on the glass. The woman, a glamorous mole poking from her left nostril like a burrowing hedgehog, was buried in a celebrity magazine.

“Sorry to bother you,” the Ringer said. “I was supposed to drive my son home this morning, but I’m not sure he got the message and I’m worried he might have left without me. He’s about six feet tall, brown hair. He might have had a backpack of some sort with him.”

The woman squinted, crinkled her nose and leaned closer.

“Yeah, there was one kid in here like that. He was in some kind of big huff, too, not very patient.” The Ringer’s heart quickened. “You ask me, your kid needs some lessons in manners.”

The Ringer nodded. “First thing I’ll tell him. Do you know if he got a ride from a student?”

“He did take a slip from the board. I can’t tell you what he did with it.”

“Would you happen to know whose slip he removed?”

The woman looked less than eager to help.

“Please,” the Ringer added, his eyes imploring. “His aunt is sick, emphysema. I really need to find him.”

“Doesn’t your boy have a cell phone?”

The Ringer offered a sheepish look. “No, his sister at George Washington has the only one in our family.”

The woman sighed heavily, then punched some keys on the computer.

“We log in all registered student rides. I can check the ones that left this morning, if it’s really that urgent. If it’s that urgent.”

“Believe me, it is.”

The woman hit a few more keys, waited a moment, punched a few more, then came up with a name.

“Amanda Davies,” she said. “Left at nine this morning to St. Louis.”

“You know, I’d love to call Ms. Davies up, let my boy know everything’s all right. Did Miss Davies leave a phone number?” The woman nodded, scribbled on a Post-it and handed it through the small slot at the bottom of the window.

“Anything else?” she said, her eyes darting back to pictures of a couple cavorting topless on a white beach.

The Ringer shook his head. “No, you’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you.”

As he left the OSA, the Ringer dialed the operator.

“What city and state?”

“St. Louis, Missouri. I’d like the address and phone number for a Miss Amanda Davies.”

Five minutes later the Ringer had reserved a plane ticket and called an associate in St. Louis who could get him an un-traceable gun. Ten minutes later he was speeding to LaGuardia airport. Blood was in the water, and he would only be circling for so long before he was able to strike.

I was back in that hallway. The man was pointing his gun at me. His horrible, manic grin breaking through the darkness. His finger squeezed the trigger. There was a sharp report and I was blinded by the gun’s muzzle. He squeezed again. And again. But with each successive blast, rather than the slug ripping through my body, tearing my flesh, John Fredrickson would stagger back. And another gaping wound would appear in his chest.

He looked at the pistol, as if wondering what went wrong, then fired again, his body jolting backward like a puppet yanked by a spiteful master. Every bullet meant for me instead struck him, blood spurting from his chest.

Once the clip was empty, Fredrickson stared at the gun, his jacket and shirt in gory tatters. He silently mouthed what happened, before collapsing onto the floor. When I looked down, the gun was gone from his hand. Then it appeared in mine.

Wake up, Henry.

Then I was back in the car with Amanda.

I blinked the sleep from my eyes. It was a dream. My neck had gone stiff. Apparently I’d fallen asleep against the window. My face felt sticky. The sky was dark. The dashboard clock read 8:52 p.m. Amanda was sipping a fresh cup of coffee. An unopened cup sat in the holder.

“I got you one, just in case,” she said. “It’s probably cold by now, but I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Thanks, I could use it.” I pulled back the tab and took a sip. It was cold, and heavy on the milk and sugar. Amanda Davies clearly valued the little things in life.

She gestured toward the cup. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it, but you seem like a light-and-sweet kind of guy.”

“And you’d be right,” I said. “So light and sweet…tell me, Sherlock, did you come to that conclusion based on the scientific evidence in your notebook?”

“No, but you look a little soggy around the tummy, I assumed you weren’t one to skimp on the sweet stuff.”

“Touche.”

Amanda gave a wry smile and turned back to the road.

I stretched my arms out, feeling my muscles slowly loosen. Drinking the coffee only made me realize just how hungry I was. And how badly I had to pee.

A billboard appeared up ahead, and Amanda steered toward it. The sign read St. Louis/Terre Haute.

“How far are we?”

“Three hours, give or take. Traffic’s not too bad, though some asshole cut me off a few miles back.”

Then I noticed the spiral notebook sitting on her lap, a pen tucked into the binding.

“Taking notes while I was sleeping?”

Amanda nodded as though there was nothing strange about it.

“We’re making good time,” she said absently. “You need to let me know where to drop you. Give me some lead time, would you?”

“Sure,” I said. My mind raced. At some point she’d realize I had nowhere to go, that nobody was waiting for me. An idea popped into my head. Feeble, but it just might work. Not like I had anything better.

“Actually,” I said, “since I missed the last few bathroom breaks, it’d be swell if we could swing by a rest stop.”

“No problem, Carl. First one I see.”

The name still sounded odd, my lies building up like mud in an hourglass.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into a rest area filled with SUVs and minivans. People with all the time in the world, and no pressure to use it. The parking lot was surrounded by thick rows of trees, the smell of car exhaust and burger grease thick in the air.

“Ah,” Amanda said, taking a deep breath. “I love the smell of lard in the evening.” She looked at my frozen countenance. “You know, Robert Duvall? Apocalypse Now? ”

“I got the joke, sorry. My mind’s just somewhere else. Still waking up a bit.”

“You’re still tired? Must have had a hell of a night last night.”

“You might say that.”

“Well, I’m gonna grab some fries and a milk shake while you hit the little boys’ room.”