Jason Pinter - The Mark

We made a few brief stops-traffic lights I assumed, since we always were moving within minutes. I thought about my backpack, still containing the tape recording from the Luis Guzman interview, that I’d left at Amanda’s house. When the driver, David Morris, according to the sloppily scrawled name on his toolbox, finally came to a complete stop, we waited what seemed like eons before daring to poke our heads out.

I eased the tarp up and saw a white neon sign hovering above us that read Ken’s Coffee Den. The C in Coffee had blown its bulb. Ken’s offee Den was good enough for me.

We had stopped at a rest area-who really knew where-but we were out of St. Louis. There was a small diner and a Mobil station. A busy highway ran parallel. The black night was slowly easing into the gray of early morning. Where were we?

“We’re clear,” I said to Amanda. “Let’s go.”

They were the first words I’d said to her in hours. She barely acknowledged me, but before I could move she’d leapt out of the truck and started walking across the parking lot. I jogged up to Amanda, praying she wouldn’t scream bloody murder before I could explain.

The first rays of sun began to peek out of the horizon, streaks of beautiful orange and gold melting the gray. I checked my watch. Another day had passed. It had been almost thirty-six hours since John Fredrickson had died. Thirty-six hours since my life had irrevocably changed. For a moment, I forgot everything. Forgot John Fredrickson, forgot that three people wanted me dead, forgot that I once had a life, a good life, which I might never see again. The beauty of the morning sky, the whispers of cool air, they took me far away. All I could think about was Amanda, the look in her eyes when I told her my real name and revealed my betrayal. This was my life now. And there was no turning back.

“Amanda, please.” I tried to grab her sleeve. She pulled away and kept walking. “Just let me explain.”

Suddenly she whipped around, her gaze cold as stone.

“Who are you?” she said. “Right now, tell me the truth. And if I even think you’re lying, I’m marching right into that restaurant and calling the cops.”

I closed my eyes. It was time to come clean.

“I’m wanted for the murder of a New York City police officer named John Fredrickson.” The breath seemed to be forced from Amanda’s lungs as she took a step back.

“Did you…” She took a deep breath. “Did you actually kill a cop?”

“No, I didn’t. There’s something fucked up going on, but I don’t know what it is yet. Just give me a minute, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Amanda stood and listened as I told her how I’d come to NewYork and taken a job at the Gazette. About Luis Guzman, how I had interviewed him for Jack’s story, how I’d tried to help them that night when I heard the screams. How John Fredrickson could have killed all of us. And how he’d died. How there was a package that went missing, and everyone assumed I stole it. Lastly I told Amanda how I found her, how I lied to her in order to flee the state. How I would be dead if it wasn’t for her.

When I finished, it was like a two-ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Finally somebody else knew as much as I did. Amanda’s eyes stayed even. Listening, not judging. I told her the truth, that I didn’t know the man who’d held the gun to her head. That I’d recognized the two cops who’d followed me from New York, and that I didn’t know how they found me. When all had been said, Amanda looked at me and spoke.

“I believe you,” she said, her voice earnest. A lead ball dropped into my stomach.

“Why?”

“Let’s just say that of the four people in the room last night, you were the only one I honestly knew wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any to trust someone.”

“That’s not the only reason. I look at you and I know you’re not an evil person. You’re not someone who would do such horrible things.”

I couldn’t help but say, “I lied to you before, you couldn’t tell then, you bought it. How do you know I’m not lying now?”

Amanda considered this. “Because you just said that. I know you weren’t lying to me before for the sake of lying. You were lying to save your life. Shit, I’d claim to be Lindsay Lohan-retch-if I thought it would save my life.

“There is one thing, though,” she said, “that you haven’t been totally honest about.”

I shook my head. “No, everything that’s happened I’ve…”

“Your name,” she said. “You still haven’t told me your real name without someone holding a gun to my head. I want you to say it on your own.” I smiled and looked at her.

“It’s Henry. Henry Parker. It’s really nice to meet you, Amanda.”

Amanda took this in, tasting my name on her tongue.

“Henry.” She squinted a bit, like she’d just tried on a pretty shirt that didn’t fit. “I’ve never met anyone named Henry before.”

“And I’m happy to be the first.”

“And what was that name you used on me? Carl?”

“Carl Bernstein.”

“Where’d you come up with that?”

“Carl Bernstein?” I waited for a sign of recognition. She looked at me as if to say and? “You know, of Woodward and Bernstein? All the President’s Men? ”

Amanda slapped her forehead. “Ugh, you cheesy asshole. I can’t believe I didn’t catch that.” She still looked confused. “But of all people, why Carl Bernstein?”

“Woodward’s kind of my hero. He’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a journalist in the first place. But I figured you’d recognize Woodward. Bernstein hasn’t really been on the radar.”

“Well, I give you points for originality.”

“I try.”

“Come on, Mr. Bernstein, I could eat my body weight right now. We need to figure out what to do next.” She started walking toward the Coffee, er, offee Den.

“What do you mean, next?”

Amanda stopped and put her hands on her hips, lecture-style. “Well, unless you plan on running for the rest of your life, we need to figure out why this cop tried to kill you and what that man tonight was looking for. You’re a reporter, right? Got any theories?”

“I haven’t really had time to do a lot of thinking the last few days. Kind of been spending too much time trying to save my ass.”

Amanda checked her pocket, pulled out a crinkled wallet with a few bills inside. “Come on, first cup’s on me.”

We walked inside the diner, passed David Morris, who was gorging himself on an order of eggs sunny-side up, and took a booth in the back. I buried myself in the menu, which, like all roadside diner menus was like the Yellow Pages, only thicker.

A woman whose name tag read Joyce and who smelled like David’s truck asked for our order. Amanda ordered a bagel and cream cheese. I got a side order of toast. Two bottomless coffees.

“Not hungry?” Amanda asked.

“Starving.”

“So why don’t you get something a little more, you know, filling than toast? There’s enough choices here they should rename this place the indecisive diner.”

“Money,” I said. “I’m guessing we have a few hours max before they cancel or trace your credit card. We’ll have to make due on whatever cash we have on hand. Let’s just say the value of a dollar just appreciated.” Amanda immediately thrust her hand in the air.

“’Scuse me, Joyce? Can you change my order to just toast, too? Thanks.”

When Joyce stalked back to the kitchen, Amanda said, “Now the big question. What was that man talking about, that package? What was he looking for?”

I shook my head and took a sip of ice water.

“I honestly have no idea. The New York papers said Fredrickson was killed over a drug deal gone bad, but I didn’t see any sort of drugs or paraphernalia in the Guzmans’ apartment. Luis was arrested for armed robbery, not drugs. Fredrickson was there to pick up some sort of package from the Guzmans, but I don’t think it was drug related.”