Jeff Abbott - Trust Me

He wrote his last name, handed the pad back to the officer.

‘Slow it down, gentlemen. If you’re dealing with one tragedy, you don’t want another.’

‘Words to live by, officer, thank you,’ Eric said.

‘Yes,’ Luke said. It was true. As soon as the officer turned away and started back to his cruiser, the gun moved to Luke’s hip.

‘Back on the road. Now. Speed limit.’

Luke obeyed, his hands shaking on the wheel, raging at himself for his lost nerve.

‘I’ll make you a deal,’ Eric said, breaking the silence as they left Mirabeau behind them.

‘You and your deals. Your deals only benefit you.’

‘Another stunt and I shoot off your big toe. I don’t have to deliver you in perfect condition. We don’t have much time.’

Deliver, Luke thought. He was now a delivery. Who wanted him?

Houston.

The city spread out across the vast coastal plain, a seemingly endless quilt of shopping centers, office buildings, housing developments, all connected by a stitching of highways. Haze moped above the horizon. It was a city of drivers, a constant thrumming jolt of energy and movement. As the afternoon rush hours approached, I-10 traffic headed east into the city slowed in fits and starts.

The creeping pace of traffic gave Luke a fresh hope. He kept cussing himself, inside his brain, for his fear in not trying to escape when the Mirabeau police officer was there to help him. But he believed it would have gotten them both dead. The desperation in Eric’s eyes was a fierce, awful fire.

They’d hit their first real traffic now. If the car came to a full stop maybe he could bolt. Eric might not be eager to shoot him in front of dozens of other people. Or he could mouth a plea for help, if anyone would look at him. The drivers kept their eyes on the road. Strangers did not exchange glances in cars in Houston.

‘The knife likes you to have your eyes forward,’ Eric said.

‘The knife likes to not stab me when I’m driving because we’ll crash. But God knows we want to keep the knife happy.’

‘Stay calm. Tonight you’ll be safe.’ Eric sounded hollow. He had shushed Luke the few times in the past hour when Luke had tried to speak again. ‘Stay in the middle lane until we get to the downtown exits.’

Traffic slowed again. And, for the first time, Eric clutched Luke’s shirt, grabbing the seat belt in his fist as well.

‘You’re considering making a run. I’m telling you I will kill you.’

‘You don’t need the threats. I’m done fighting you.’ He was gripped by a panic that someone would see Eric threatening him and try to help him, making it worse. Luke glanced at the car on his left. He saw a woman driving a minivan, a bored teenage girl in the passenger seat, texting on a phone. To his right, an older man in a pickup truck drummed a beat on the steering wheel. None of them looked over at Luke’s car, lost in the world of what was directly ahead of their wind-shields.

‘Strange to be so alone, each of us, when surrounded by thousands of others. We don’t even know who we can reach out to, who will understand us.’ Eric gave a ragged laugh. ‘That’s why the world’s going to hell.’

‘Then let’s not take one further step into hell. Please. You’re not a bad guy.’

‘You need to be afraid of me, Luke.’

‘I am. But… you don’t want to hurt me. I can tell. You’re not a criminal, you don’t want to do this. Let me help you get out of whatever mess you’re in.’ He had to convince Eric it wasn’t too late to stop, to let him go.

‘You are helping me. You just don’t know it yet.’ Eric’s jaw clenched.

‘But…’

‘It changes you, breaking the law,’ Eric said quietly. ‘I can’t go back. I made my choice. And I want you to shut up now.’

They had to work past a traffic jam caused by a chain reaction of fender benders, and by the time they reached the heart of the city evening had begun its slide over the sky. Eric got more agitated, checking his watch every half-minute. Sweat was bright on his face. Downtown Houston rose in light-bejeweled towers. Downtown had undergone a renaissance in recent years; old abandoned hotels and buildings reborn into new establishments, lodgings and office space. Luke steered the BMW through the weaving pedestrians – office workers heading to the light rail and bus stops and parking garages, or to trendy new bars and restaurants. Luke had always thought Houston a place of unbounded energy and bustle, but right now he just wished someone would slow down long enough to notice he was in trouble.

‘This is about to get dangerous,’ Eric said. He leaned forward, as though scanning the pedestrians for a face, for a threat.

‘Like it wasn’t already.’

‘Turn here.’

They drove past Minute Maid Park where the Astros played, then deep into a neighborhood that had not yet benefited from the economic renaissance of downtown. The buildings were older, the businesses humbler. Unrepaired potholes, the by-product of Houston humidity, pocked the pavement.

Luke reached a small parking lot and Eric said, ‘Pull in here.’

Luke did, parking in a slot closest to the street at Eric’s order. They had a view down the street. The sidewalks were less crowded; fewer pedestrians strolled to their evening’s entertainment. Luke saw an old couple ambling slowly, carrying grocery bags; a young woman hurrying past, chattering on a cell phone and gesturing wildly; an older woman dressed too young, venturing into the twilight with her painted, pained smile. Down the street Luke could see a small bar, a homeless shelter operated by an Episcopal charity, a liquor store, a clothing resale shop, a neon-signed Tex-Mex eatery. The storefronts were weathered and worn.

‘Now what?’ Luke asked.

‘We wait.’

‘For what?’ Was someone coming here to meet them? To collect Luke? This might be his one remaining chance to escape. But no way he could get clear of the car without Eric shooting or knifing him. ‘What are you going to do?’

Eric glanced again at his watch, tugged nervously at his lip. ‘Everything will be okay. Trust me.’

Twenty minutes passed; sundown completed its glory. The night threw its stars across the dark-purpled sky. Eric’s gun rested back in its second home, Luke’s ribs. Luke’s legs ached from sitting so long. Hunger rumbled his stomach, but he kept fighting off a fear-induced nausea. He’d already decided that if he puked he was aiming at Eric’s rotten face. Puke and run for his life. A mark of real heroics. He thought he was starting to lose his grip.

He closed his eyes. He wondered if this sinking acceptance in his chest that the end was close was what his father felt like in the moments before he died, if Dad had realized the plane he was on was doomed.

Luke’s hand found the medal under his shirt and clutched at it. He thought of the conversation he’d had with his father, his mom asleep in the sleeping bag, he and his dad sitting by the soft flicker of the campfire.

‘I want you to have this, son, keep it close to you always,’ his father had said. ‘Always. It will shield you from danger.’

‘Dad. Seriously? You’re not religious.’ His father had been raised Episcopalian but he wasn’t a churchgoer, except maybe at Easter and Christmas, when Luke’s mom insisted.

‘No atheists in foxholes, Luke,’ Warren Dantry had said.

‘We’re camping, this isn’t a foxhole,’ Luke said. He raised the medal to the firelight’s glow: a faceless angel, muscular wings, holding a sword and shield.

‘Saint Michael the archangel is an emblem of strength and determination, of order and reason overcoming chaos and violence. He’s special in that he figures in Christian, Jewish and Islamic traditions. He’s a hero for the world, good overcoming enormous evil.’