Jason Pinter - The Mark

“I’ll come with you. I could use a French fry transfusion. Besides, it’s only fair that I pay.”

“You’re paying for half the gas, buddy. Better make sure you can afford some Exxon Supreme along with my cholesterol burger.” I laughed, quite forcibly, very aware that my cash supply was on life support.

As we walked toward the complex, anxiety began to tingle inside me, a sort of paranoid spider sense. I had forty dollars to my name and no immediate possibility of making more. I had no friends or family to turn to-or wanted to turn to. I looked at the girl walking beside me, wondering if she could sense any of this. Wondering what she’d do if she knew the truth.

Amanda went to the ladies’ room, and I set the unofficial world record for the longest urination in history. Of course I still made it out of the restroom before she did and went straight for Mickey D’s. I wasn’t a big fast-food person, but the smell of beef-injected French fries may as well have been filet mignon. A minute later Amanda joined me on line.

“Thanks for getting a spot,” she said. “You mind if we eat in the car?”

“Not at all. I actually need to talk to you.”

“About what?” she said, scanning the menu. “I can’t decide between a farmer’s salad or a double cheeseburger.”

“Let’s wait till we get back in the car.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

I bought a value meal and an extra order of fries. Amanda bought some newfangled salad that, being McDonald’s, probably still had the fat content of a jelly doughnut.

The first order of fries disappeared before we made it to the car, and by the time we pulled onto the highway all that remained of my meal were three lettuce molecules and a pile of dirty napkins.

“So are you gonna tell me where I’m dropping you? Or maybe I should just leave you at the first housing project I come to.” She smiled, and I returned a weak one.

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Amanda looked at me, concerned. “I don’t know how else to say this, but my aunt and uncle…I’m supposed to stay with them and, well, I called them while you were in the bathroom and they’re not back in town yet. They’re on vacation in Cancun and their flight got delayed until tomorrow.”

A moment passed.

“And?” Amanda said.

“And I don’t have a key to their house.” She turned back to the road and sipped her vat-sized soda.

“Can’t you book a hotel room for the night? Watch some free HBO or hotel porn or something?”

“I suppose I could,” I answered hesitantly.

We were silent for several minutes. Amanda’s knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel. She’d been so obliging to this point, and what I had in mind went well beyond mere imposition.

Then Amanda spoke.

“I keep mace in my bedroom.”

“What?”

“Mace,” she said. “In my nightstand. I can reach it, aim and fire accurately in under two seconds. If you come anywhere near me while I’m sleeping, I’ll burn your eyes out.”

“Geez, and I thought we were getting along.”

She smiled, but there was an edge to it. She was being polite, more than polite, but wanted to make sure I understood the generosity of the favor she was about to extend.

“Seriously,” she said, taking her eyes off the road, the cold night sky. I felt a chill run through my body. What I owed Amanda could never fully be repaid. “We have a guest bedroom. You can stay one night, but just one. After that, if Auntie Bernstein isn’t home yet, you’re on your own. I’m all for charity, but I’m late on my dues to the ACLU.”

“Amanda,” I said, my gratitude sincere, “you have no idea how much I appreciate it. I swear I won’t leave my room. I won’t even sleep in the bed. I’ll stay on the floor.”

“You’re just lucky my parents are out of town, otherwise you’d be in the honeymoon suite at Motel Rat.”

“What are the nightly rates at Motel Rat?”

“Actually they charge by the hour, on account that most of the guests contract rabies and can’t afford to pay their hospital bills.”

“Then I’ll be sure to wear disinfectant-coated pajamas.” Amanda laughed, and I followed suit. “But seriously, this really is kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it. Besides, my house can get creepy when I’m alone. At least I know if anyone breaks in, they’ll go after you first.”

“And why is that?”

She looked at me like I’d missed the punch line to a really good joke.

“’Cause you’re the guy, stupid. You’re supposed to ward off evil with a baseball bat in your pajamas while I’m sleeping peacefully with a glass of warm milk by my side.”

“I haven’t played baseball since I was ten.”

A flirtatious smirk appeared on her face. “Well then you’d better practice your swing.”

“Joe, we got another hit.”

Mauser strode over to the large roadmap Denton had hung in the conference room. Red pushpins had been stuck in at every checkpoint where Amanda Davies’s E-Z Pass had registered. Mauser studied the chain of pins, in his mind extrapolating their path.

Jersey City, New Jersey.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Columbus, Ohio.

The line extended straight to St. Louis.

“Where’s this new one?”

“I-70 West, heading toward Cincinnati. Assuming they’re headed to St. Louis, Amanda Davies and Henry Parker should arrive by midnight.”

Mauser felt a surge of adrenaline. The conversation with Linda was still fresh in his mind. Parker was running. The fucking guy was trying to get away with it.

“The hell with this,” Mauser said. “I want to be in the air in half an hour. And another thing.” He looked Denton right in the eye, lowered his voice. He checked the door; it was closed. “I don’t want St. Louis PD in the loop. Not yet.”

“Joe?” Denton said, a hint of concern on his face. “What’re you gonna do?”

Mauser’s voice was granite, not a hint of indecisiveness.

“When we take Parker down, we take him down our way. Not one word about procedure or extradition. Henry Parker deserves to go down hard, and I don’t want anyone there to soften his landing.”

“Joe,” Denton said, his voice imploring. “Remember there are other factors here. The drugs, number one. If Parker has info on Luis and Christine Guzman’s supplier, maybe we take down two birds on this case. I say we find the package and milk that.”

Again, Mauser thought, with the career aspirations. More cases for superstar FBI agent Leonard Denton to solve. Fuck it. If it meant Denton worked harder, saw more angles, his delusions of grandeur were acceptable.

“Fine,” Mauser said, throwing on his overcoat and heading for the door. “Before we take Parker down, we’ll bleed him dry.”

Denton smiled and grabbed the car keys. “I hear ‘death by a thousand cuts’is popular these days. I’ll help you make the first incision.”

We pulled up at Amanda’s house on Teasdale Drive at 11:47 p.m., thirteen minutes before her self-imposed deadline. The air had an eerie quiet to it, as though the world was afraid to take a breath.

The Davies residence was a large, Tudor-style home, painted white with delicate gray trim, paved driveway, two-car garage and covered deck. Amanda circled the driveway and parked in front of the garage.

“Nice neighborhood,” I said.

“We’re only five minutes from the Wash-U campus,” she replied, stretching her arms above her head and yawning. “I moved here when I was about twelve. Trust me, I was thrilled to get away from Midwest suburban hell.”

She got out, knelt down in front of the garage door and yanked the metal handle upward. The garage rattled open. A silver Mercedes SUV was parked between cardboard boxes and rusty gardening equipment. She got back in the car and pulled inside.