Broken Identity (19 page)

They had found him. Life was over. He was trapped. Duped. Caged.

Game over.

Get out.

Adrenaline gushed through Drake’s veins, quickening his heart and alerting his mind to give every defensive instinct top priority. Still, he gave no thought of running…not yet, anyway. Not until he figured out their plan and foiled it with his own. The survival, save-your-hide part of him begged him to use his legs to run until his body crumpled underneath him in fatigue. But the revengeful, swear-on-my-life-I’ll-payyou-back part of him that refused to be destroyed commanded full obedience—and that obedience would be served.

But this is real life, not a game of cops and robbers!
a thought arose.
What if they catch you?

They won’t,
he argued with himself.

You’re a fool.

Maybe.

Electric chair…

Drake clenched his teeth as a new fury arose in him.
I’m not dead yet.
He noiselessly walked toward the door Andrew had closed behind him and put an ear against it. Andrew must have been close to the door, because his words were unmistakably clear.

“You know it’s him?” Andrew said solemnly. “How?”

Drake’s pulse accelerated. He wanted to run away, but he had to be sure first. There had to be a logical explanation for all this.
Of course there is…me. Why else would they be callin’? To invite me over for teacakes?
He held his breath and listened.

“You traced the license plate number, huh? Yeah, I figured that would come in handy.”

Oh, no, my truck! That salesman must’ve been working with them the whole time and reported my license plate number. How could I be so careless?

“Mm-hm. I understand. But what did he use?…A baseball bat? That makes sense.”

Drake had heard enough. He was out the door in a flash. For once, there were no questions and too many answers.
Run. Just run. As far away as you can. They’re onto you, but you’re still a step ahead of them. Remember that. Don’t let them catch you or even come close to finding you this time. Just keep running.

Drake cursed the police, cursed Andrew, cursed his father, cursed himself for falling into this unwanted ditch that had taken his life so far off course. Life shouldn’t have to be like this. It wasn’t fair. Nothing was.
Well, if they want to set traps and lower bait in front of my face, I can play dirty back. Bring it on.

He cut through yards and weaved his way through mazes of buildings, staying away from the roads and sidewalks as much as possible. Where was he going? He wasn’t even sure himself. Being traced to Andrew’s home so far away from his own hadn’t fully registered in his mind yet. One thing he was sure of, though. He was through with trusting people. Oh, Andrew had sounded sincere and genuine, but he knew now that it had all been a façade.

Buying me clothes, giving me a bed to sleep in, telling me I was welcome in his home, and even applauding me on the piano…all that was his way of keeping me there until the cops showed up. He thought he had me, but he’ll get the surprise of his life when he ends his little, secretive phone call and finds out I’m long gone. What then, huh? He tricked me once, but I swear he’ll never do it again. I hate him. If I had a gun in my hand, I might even be tempted to go back and shoot him.

Chapter

11

N
EW
A
CCOMPLICE

Drake Pearson’s legs were stiff and aching, and he wasn’t sure if he had gone one mile or five. He had run so far that he was no longer in the wealthier part of town, but had somehow wound up in the middle of an extremely poor neighborhood. He had thought his hometown was rough, but this place gave him chills.

Most of the windows had bars in them; that is, if they weren’t already boarded up with scrap wood or flattened car hoods. Dehydrated trees with gnarled branches hung suspended over the road like groping arms, the fallen leaves and peeling bark the only substance available to fill cracks and level potholes in the deteriorating road. Most every ditch he saw was littered with smashed aluminum cans and empty potato chip bags—an occasional paint can or mangled toy beneath the garbage added a splash of color to the dirty streetscape. This was not where he wanted to be.

Drake took a left down a narrow road and spotted several mailbox posts wound tightly with oxidized barbed wire—a silent threat to trespassers. A Rottweiler strained against his chains and pawed the ground, baring his teeth and snarling viciously at Drake’s uninvited presence. Drake turned and walked back down the shaded street from where he had come, not doubting for one second that if he continued any further, he would see a grizzly-looking man cradling a shotgun who looked more fit for a cave in the B.C. era than on a front porch. His luck, the man would probably use the shotgun on him just for the demented thrill of it. Nothing would surprise him anymore. Not even the sight of the giggling kids he saw in the distance pouring dirt and algae water down a crumbling chimney.
I just had to pick this place.

With every dog coming unglued at his presence and eagerly joining the barking crusade, Drake sensed he was beginning to attract an audience—mostly nosy people with nothing better to do than peek through their windows and wonder what this daredevil was doing on their turf…or dirt, or cracked pavement, or whatever this hole in the ground was supposed to consist of.

Drake felt the fingers of fear grazing against his heart. He jogged through the streets, wanting to run but fearing that might give the snoopers the wrong impression. He wanted to look innocent; he didn’t need more people calling the cops on him. Then again, these people didn’t exactly look the type to enlist the help of a police officer. If there was a problem, they would probably deal with it themselves—two shells and a shotgun, then a shovel to bury the remains. Just a wild guess, purely speculation, but it was probably more realistic than Drake dared to admit.

The people he passed stared enviously at his clothes, looking over their shoulders and whispering. Drake kept his eyes straight ahead and urged himself to keep moving, knowing that if he displayed the smallest ounce of fear they would be all over him. He could only guess what they were saying.

“Look who just blew in.”

“Who’s he think he is?”

“Gonna get himself hurt if he’s not careful.”

Drake kept jogging.
Don’t worry. I’m being careful. I didn’t exactly pick this place off a list.
Still, in spite of his efforts, he couldn’t help but meet the faces of those he passed. Some of the men and women carried bags over their shoulders, few rode bikes, and others had nothing but the ragged clothes on their backs. Every bleak expression was sagging with a frown and paired with criminal eyes.
Where am I?
he wondered.

Drake slowed his pace to a walk, trying to blend now. He couldn’t afford to appear suspicious. As he walked, he took in all the sights and sounds around him. Other than the dotted pink clouds in the sky above, he found nothing beautiful about this place. The range of odors in the air assaulted his senses, almost to the point where he had to hold a hand over his nose. Homes were rotting, an abundance of graffiti made up for the lack of color, and he could have sworn he smelled a hint of marijuana in the light breeze.

Though it was three o’clock in the afternoon, it would only be a matter of hours before it would be getting dark—and Drake still didn’t know where he was or if he would stay here for the night. He looked for any signs along the side of the road, but there were none. It was then that he began to feel uncomfortable.

As he continued walking aimlessly down the lonely street he had stumbled upon, he glanced to his left and saw an older couple sharing a tattered couch on their front porch, smoking cigarettes. Drake briskly strode by without so much as a quick glance or nod of the head. He had no idea what kind of people lived here, but their faces were far from friendly.

Drake detected the smell of burnt grease as he walked by a place called Miller’s Diner. Surprisingly, even the smell of unpleasant food made his stomach churn with hunger. Maybe he should go inside and sit awhile until he got his strategy together. He had to get off these streets anyway before he got mugged.

A heavy fog of cigarette smoke engulfed him as soon as he pushed open the door. Cigarette smoke had always detested him, even when he was the one doing the smoking, so being in a small room where the air was concentrated only made it worse. Though he was glad he had kicked cigarettes, he hated the fact that now even the smell gave him a pounding headache and teary eyes.

The place wasn’t too crowded. He had to conserve his energy before nightfall, and since there was nowhere else to go, it seemed this would be the best place to stop and get his bearings. He scouted out a table in the corner of the small room and sat with his hands crossed over his face.
Oh, here we go. You lived it high. Now it’s time to taste life from the bottom again.

A man with a braided black goatee asked him from behind the counter what he’d like to eat.

Drake turned and patted his pockets. “I ain’t got no money. Just came in to sit, if that’s all right.”

The man frowned and gave Drake a once-over. “Sure, sure,” he mumbled.

Drake stared out the window and traced his eyes over the colorful graffiti on nearly every building wall. Some were just markings, but most were real talent. What really surprised him was a painting on one side of a two-story building across the street of a burly man with a cane in his hand climbing up a black and purple rainbow. He rubbed the chills on his arms and looked down at the table.

“Hey,” someone said behind him.

Drake didn’t move.
Someone talking to me?
He turned and saw a young man maybe a couple years older than him staring back at him. “Hey,” he replied guardedly.

The man waved him over.

Great, he wants me to sit with him.
Drake stood up and walked stiffly over to the table where the man sat. “Yeah?”

“Sit.”

OK.
Drake sat across from him and surveyed the room to make sure no one was lurking in the corner waiting to jump him. So far, no shotgun—a definite plus. He faced the young man again and waited. “What?” he said finally.

“Nice clothes.”

Drake glanced down at his shirt and jeans. “What about ’em?”

“Name’s Ivan. What’s yours?”

Kinda forward, aren’t ya?
“Why do you care?”

“Hey, chill, bro. Don’t be so jumpy.”

“I’m not jumpy,” Drake said, his voice strict and affirmative. He tried to ignore the fact that blood was rushing to his face, making him appear guilty.

Ivan held up his hands. “OK, OK. So why are ya here?”

“I wanna know why you’re asking.”

“What? Mommy said you can’t talk to strangers? I just asked what you were doin’ here.”

Drake noticed a strange tattoo on the side of Ivan’s neck. “Just passin’ through,” he answered, trying to figure out where all this small talk was headed.

Ivan laughed. “Nobody just passes through here. Especially a rich boy like you. Bad things could happen if you turn your back for only a second.” Ivan heavily peppered what was left of his hamburger and shoved it all in his mouth at once.

Drake looked away as grease trickled down the side of Ivan’s mouth. “Believe me,” he said, “I’m not rich.”

“Oh, right,”Ivan said sarcastically, making little use of the napkin he held wadded in his fist.

“I’m not!”

Ivan eyed him. “So where’d you get the clothes? Steal ’em?”

Drake felt uncomfortable under Ivan’s glare. “I worked for a man who lived in a nice house. Mowed yards for him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Why do you wanna know everyone’s name?”

Ivan leaned back. “Just like to know who I’m dealin’ with. I may know him and I may not, but that’s up for me to decide, not you. So spill. What’s his name?”

“Andrew,” Drake said, still not seeing the point in all this. “Last name’s Tavner, in case you wanna get that detailed.”

“And this Andrew is a fairly wealthy man, is that correct?”

“You’ve got the idea.”

“He fire you?”

“Fire me?” Drake said, a hint of pride in his voice. “Hardly. I quit. He was a slave driver, and that bratty kid of his drove me nuts.”

Ivan smiled and shook his head. “You’re a bad liar, you know that? Listen, pal. You ain’t foolin’ me. What are you runnin’ from?”

Drake shoved his chair back and stood to leave.

“Fine, run away,” Ivan said, stirring his drink with his straw. “If you don’t want any help from me, that’s cool.”

Drake turned and glared at Ivan. “Help? Help from what?”

Ivan glanced at the chair.

Drake huffed and unwillingly sat.
Why am I listening to him? He can’t help me. I can’t even help me.

Ivan looked at the man behind the counter and glared at him until he walked into a back room.

Drake noticed how deep his breathing was getting. OK, so maybe he had been wrong about this guy.

Ivan turned to face him, satisfied at the tension he had created. “I’m trying to help you, but if you don’t tell me everything I wanna know, I’m useless to you.”

“What makes you think I need your help?”

“I’m pretty good at reading people, and believe me, you’re easy to read. Why were you running?”

“I wasn’t running. I was walking,” Drake said, knowing he had stopped running long before he reached this place. Ivan couldn’t have possibly seen him.

Ivan took a sip of his soda. “Your face is awful red.”

Drake felt his heart pick up speed. “It’s hot outside.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Then I give up,” Drake said, exasperated. “I’m tired of this game. If you know all the answers before you ask them, then you tell me.”

“Never said I was a mind reader.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Ivan chuckled. “You know, I like you. I think we could get along.”