T. Boyle - Talk Talk

“He's leaving town. He's running.”

Was he? Had they got to him? Had they put a scare in him?

Suddenly he felt exhilarated, felt as if he could do anything-he was The Kade and this guy, this bad guy, was an extra in a lizard mask, a walk-on, nothing. He gritted his teeth, bore down on the wheel. “This time, brother,” he said to himself, “you're the one going to jail, and we'll just see how you like it.” But then what was the plan? Should they call 911? His mind was racing. What would they say? That there was a criminal loose, that he'd stolen someone's identity-Dana's identity, a young woman's, a deaf woman's-and he was right ahead of them on 101 in a red Mercedes with dealer plates? That he was running. That he was getting away. But where was the proof? They would have to be there when he was pulled over, because if they weren't the cops would just let him go-he wasn't even speeding. This guy-and Bridger could just make him out in silhouette through the back window of the pickup and the intervening lenses of the pickup's windshield and the slanted rear window of the Mercedes-was driving as if he was on his way to church. And maybe he was. Maybe he'd pull off the freeway and amble up to some big glass and stucco cathedral and they'd roll in behind him and have the cops nail him right there when he was down on his knees cleansing his soul. Wouldn't that be ironic? Because that was him, definitely him, and as long as they stayed with him there was no way he was going to get out of this.

“Yeah,” he said, but he was saying it to himself because she wasn't looking, “maybe.”

Before he could think, before he could put together two consecutive thoughts, the Mercedes swung onto Sir Francis Drake and merged onto the 580, heading for the Richmond Bridge. The blue pickup veered off and Bridger fell back as the fog began to dissipate and the Mercedes picked up speed. “Call the cops,” Dana said, “call the cops,” but he flicked his turn signal and moved out a lane, accelerating to keep pace and yet careful not to attract notice-if it came to it the Mercedes would leave them in the dust. “Not yet,” he said. “We have to see where he's going, we have to be there.”

It was only after they'd followed him onto I-80, going east toward Sacramento, that Bridger thought to glance down at the fuel gauge-there it was, right there in front of him, a simple continuum from empty to full, from go to no-go, and at first it didn't register on him. He was dull, he was unfocused, he wasn't thinking of gas-gas was a given. And so it took him a moment, his adrenaline surging, to understand that the needle was pinned all the way to the left; even as he watched, the warning light blinked to life. Empty. He was incredulous. Outraged. And his first thought was to blame someone, to blame her-“Who'd been driving last? Out of gas? He never let his car dip below half a tank, never”-but he put his foot down instead, his heart rattling, and heard himself say, “Quick, give me your phone!”

They shot up on the Mercedes before he let off on the gas, and he saw the back of the thief's head quite clearly, an average head, oblivious beneath its Mr. Hipster haircut, and the thief's shoulders and the long swaying fringe of the thief's wife's hair as she leaned forward to adjust the radio, and he had to make a snatch for Dana's arm because she wasn't hearing him. “The phone! Quick, the phone!” He was one lane out, falling back now, drifting, allowing a silver Toyota to interpose itself between him and the Mercedes, the warning light on the fuel gauge burning a hole in the dash. Then the phone was in his hand and he punched in 911.

It picked up on the first ring and a woman's voice said, “Nine-one-one, can you hold, please?”

“No!” he shouted, but the connection gave back static and the needle held fast and the thief cruised along in the inside lane as if it had been funded, surveyed, poured and striped for his exclusive use. There was an exit coming up fast on the right, gas, food and lodging, a Chevron station showing its badge, and he didn't know what to do. Dana was watching him, her eyes wide with excitement, a thin red furrow of blood leaching out of the black slit at her hairline. “What do they say?”

“Hold,” he shouted. “I'm on hold. And we need gas. Didn't you-?”

“Nine-one-one,” the voice came back at him. “What is your emergency?”

“A thief,” he said, and he was shouting still, he couldn't help himself. “A theft. Identity theft. He's-he stole my girlfriend's, my fiancée's, identity, and he's here, we have him in sight, we-”

Dana's voice, fluting in its highest register, clambered atop his: “A red Mercedes. Tell them a red Mercedes!”

“What is your location?”

At first the question didn't register. Location? “We're in a car,” he said. “On the freeway, the I-80, and he's-we're running out of gas…”

“You're running out of gas?”

“Yes, and he's-”

“Sir, this is an emergency line only. I'm sorry. You're going to have to hang up immediately.”

The connection went dead, the exit blew past. A crazy thought of battering the Mercedes off the road flew in and out of his head, something he'd seen in a movie, a dozen movies, but there was no one to paint out the wires here, and the blood on Dana's forehead was real. “How accurate is this gauge?” he demanded, flinging the phone back at her. “How many miles do we have? Does it go right out or is it just a warning and you get twenty miles or something? Do you know?”

She said, “What?”

He repeated himself slowly, and she said, “You mean the gas gauge?”

He nodded.

She was leaning over him to check the gauge for herself, to get the angle on it, when the Mercedes suddenly swung out into their lane and he was so startled he nearly let go of the wheel. Had he seen them? Was that it? Bridger tapped the brake, drew back until the car behind him sped up to pass. But no, the guy wasn't looking in his mirrors, wasn't doing anything but staring straight ahead except to dip his head toward his wife's, as if they were conversing. He didn't have a clue. They were okay. Everything was okay. Until they ran out of gas.

When it happened, he was almost surprised, expecting miracles, the loaves and fishes, the Hanukkah oil, good triumphing over evil despite the odds. The car suddenly seemed to waver, as if a gale had swept up off the roadway to fling it back, then the engine choked and died and he was coasting to a stop on the shoulder, as powerless as one of the lizard lords of Drex III.

For a moment he just sat there, his hands trembling on the wheel. Beside him, her knees drawn up to her chin as if she were bracing herself against some unseen force, Dana gave him a long slow look that cut right into him. Disbelief was there-that was part of it; he felt it himself. Disappointment. Sorrow. And something else too: disgust. She looked disgusted. With him. He couldn't suppress a quick flare of anger. “What? What is it? You want me to get out and run him down on foot?”

The gash on her forehead had begun to crust over, a yellowish contusion swelling beneath a ragged badge of dried blood. Her hands snapped at him: “No, I want you to get out and get gas.” And then she was pointing to a building in the near distance, on a side street that ran parallel to the freeway, a gas station, Shell, and how far was it? A quarter mile?

He'd already cracked the door-he was already on his way-but he couldn't resist coming back at her because he was as wrought up and furious as she was and how dare she blame him, as if this whole mess was his idea, as if he were the one who should have seen to the maintenance of the car when it wasn't even his in the first place. “What's the point?” he said aloud. “You think he pulled off to wait for us? You think we'll ever see him again? Huh? Do you?”