The Gambit (6 page)

If 95 remained empty, at this rate, I would be there in around forty-five minutes. I felt my iPhone vibrating in my pocket, and as I felt the sensation, I realized they would be tracking my location through it. I slipped it out and tossed it. Whoever told the media that I was the culprit, made a
big
mistake.
They picked the wrong fight, with the right guy
.

“Ma’am, the last street camera caught him on I-95 South going well over 140 miles per hour. They’ve lost him.”

The flames of anger licked my insides. My teeth were clenched as I watched the video recording of him zipping by on his motorcycle.

“Well, if he doesn’t kill himself at that speed first, we need to find out where he is going. You said the father still lives in the house Owen grew up in, correct?”

“Correct. The father, Ted Marina, lives in a house in a small development in Midlothian, Virginia.”

I watched the graphics populate the many screens that surrounded us. The birth certificates, documents, and addresses. All the information
I needed,
right at their fingertips. There was no way he was going to slip through our grasp again.

“What about his mother?” I asked.

“Mother is deceased. Died of a heart attack in 2007.”

“Well, that eliminates the question of which parent he would go to first. Easy enough for us. Are we still triangulating his movements?”

“No ma’am, he destroyed his phone on the interstate just moments ago.”

I paused, thinking.

“If he continues at the pace he is going, he will reach Richmond in a half-hour. Our guys won’t be able to apprehend him in time. Contact the Midlothian Police Department. Inform them that Owen Marina is the most wanted fugitive in the United States. Have them intercept his arrival.”

One of the men beside me picked up his phone and began to call.

“Ma’am, you do realize that if he happens to not go to his dad’s house, if he deviates from the main roads onto back roads, with the capacity of his bike, we could lose him for good. We have all of his receipts pulled up for the YZF-R1 he is on. It is far from stock. It has over twenty grand of upgrades on it. That bike can go in excess of 200 miles per hour, and from our records this isn’t his first bike. He has been riding close to a decade. This gives him an advantage over our guys on the ground.”

I wanted to smack him so badly, but I restrained myself.

“That is nothing but an excuse. I want
every
camera, every pair of eyes we have, watching for that bike. Put an alert out to every police station in the Southeast, give them his tag number. We will catch him when he reaches Midlothian. That has to be his destination.”

“Right on it, ma’am.”

I stared at the video loop of Owen’s bike—a black blur, shooting past the visible field of the camera on I-95. I smiled at the thought of us putting him in handcuffs, and the court case that would follow. Even the best lawyer wouldn’t be able to get him out of his situation. Our evidence was foolproof.

“If Owen wants to take us on a chase, then we will chase him, and a
merry
chase it will be.”

The engine grumbled and sputtered as I slowed down to exit the turnpike. The skin beneath my jacket was unbearably icy. I wasn’t in gear that would keep me warm during high-speed interstate travel. I never planned on having to flee Washington. On most days, after my coffee, I might have responded to some emails, or gotten on a conference call, but today
wasn’t
most days.

I hurried down the back roads of my hometown and navigated them solely by memory. Autumn colors—burnt orange, cardinal red, and amber leaves blanketed the yards and the edges of the street. What a majestic display they put on, as if their change of color were a final performance before their death. The sun sneaked out from behind the clouds periodically. Although it was overcast, there was no rain, and many homeowners were taking advantage of the lack of precipitation to break out their riding lawn mowers. If you ever wondered what upper-middle class America looked like, Midlothian was it. Perfectly manicured lawns, a close-knit community, and just a short drive to the city.

Welcome to Suburbia.

I turned onto Oakengate Lane and the familiarity caused memories to flood my mind. Our street sat behind Salisbury Lake. Many of the families who lived here when I was growing up never left. I imagined the streets would be filled with children and their parents in a few weeks, trick-or-treating for Halloween. I smiled momentarily, and as I pulled into the driveway I thought I should conceal my bike in the backyard. I parked it, and as I took off my helmet I saw the glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the lake. I used to smoke weed with my buddies the summer before my senior year while kayaking, and then we would all get paranoid when someone forgot the eye-drops. I would cautiously walk into the kitchen in hopes of avoiding my parents, all for some munchies.

Only in America—first world problems. Now, after the Confinement, many of those lighthearted times had disappeared. They were cherished times. The
real
world, the world that I lived in, was no longer carefree. We lived in the wake of a tragedy, and the forceful imprisonment that followed haunted us all. Our reality was
darker
. That was something I was hell-bent on changing.

Before I took a step onto the back porch the door flew open.

“Owen,” my father gasped.

“Dad…” I said as we embraced in a hug. I could feel him exhale as I held him. The fact that I was alive and in his arms was enough to comfort him. It was enough for me, even if that comfort was short-lived.

He glanced to his left and to his right at the neighbors’ houses.

“Come inside.”

I followed him through the door and was instantly enveloped in the warmth of the house. My skin was still numb from the ride over. After all the years, my old home hadn’t changed a bit. There was the rustic walnut table in the dining room, with matching chairs, and the many picture frames that lined the walls. Our house was built in the twenties. My dad bought it when I was in my mom’s womb. Back then, property in this area was one-fourth of what it was now. It was a smart investment. My mother, while she was still alive, was passionate about French antiques and design. Much of our furniture she chose and my dad never sold or changed any of it. They were pieces of her, fragments of who she was. It had almost been a decade and he still hadn’t remarried. I doubted he ever would. He couldn’t let go of her.

“What the hell is going on, Son?”

As he asked me that question, I had the realization that I was just as helpless as he was. What
did
I know?

“This must be some mistake. Just an hour ago I was in a coffee shop, and then I saw myself on the news. I just don’t understand.”

My dad looked towards the carpet in thought and then glanced back up at me.

“What you just said, Owen—say it again.”

“That I just don’t understand?” I questioned, confused.

“No, before that.”

“That this must be some mistake.”

“Yes! Yes,
that this must be some mistake
.”

“What are you getting at, Dad?”

I saw a barren emptiness behind his eyes as if he was digesting the gravity of his thoughts.

“That this
wasn’t
a mistake, Owen. Have you seen the news? You are
the
guy. Not just a potential suspect, or an accomplice. You are the one they want. The media is going berserk right now.”

Ring
…
Ring
…
Ring
…

Mine and my father’s eyes locked. His home phone was ringing. It still had the classic, mid-nineties ring that was the standard sound for all phones at the time.

“The only calls I get on this phone are for the election,” he mentioned nervously.

My dad picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

“Hello. Sheriff Aldridge, no, I—I’m not watching it right now. I had to shut it off. What? No, I haven’t seen him. What do you mean?”

There was a long,
long
pause. I watched some of the color leave his face. My pulse began to increase. I felt flushed with heat.

“Yes sir, I understand. Thank you, tell the boys I said thank you, too.”

He set the plastic phone on its base.