Origin - Season One (11 page)

“Canada.”

“I was afraid you might say that,” Amanda said.

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Isn’t that where fugitives go? Hop over the border into good old Canada?”

“And for good reasons,” Francis said.

“Name one,” Amanda said.

“Well, for starters, it’s not the United States. It’s also a largely unpopulated country.”

“So we’re off to the middle of nowhere to shack up with the moose and Eskimos?” Amanda said.

“Can’t promise you Eskimos,” Francis said. “But I’m sure there will be plenty of elk. First we need to ditch this car though. Is there a truck stop around here?”

Amanda sat up and leaned forward. “You’re going to leave my dad’s Impala at a truck stop?”

“We can’t cross the border in this,” Francis said. “We’d have a better chance of getting across unnoticed on roller skates. They may assume we’re leaving the country anyway, but assuming is not the same as knowing.”

“Won’t leaving the car in the same place we move on from just make it easier to find us?” Jesse asked.

“Yes” Francis said. “Being seen arriving and leaving the car there would be both dumb and dangerous. But that won’t matter if there isn’t a truck stop up ahead somewhere.”

“Past Barton about a mile or so,” Jesse said. “It’s a small place with a diner. You usually get a couple of trucks parked up in there.”

“Good. We’ll pull off the road and hide the car before we get there. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

“To Canada?” Amanda asked.

“Yes, to Canada. And then maybe Greenland if we’re not too tired.”

“I was joking,” Amanda said.

“So was I,” Francis said.

They drove on for a while in silence.

“That’s Barton over there,” Jesse said when they passed the flyover.

Francis slowed the car, checked the mirror to make sure nobody was behind them and pulled off the road. He crossed a small field and drove into the trees on the other side.

“This is the end of the line,” Francis said and got out.

When Jesse and Amanda joined him Francis had already begun snapping off low-hanging branches from the surrounding trees and leaning them against the side of the car. They joined in and within ten minutes one side of the Impala looked more like a beaver dam than a vintage muscle car.

“It’ll have to do,” Francis said.

Jesse frowned. “I meant to ask, how
did
you get into town?”

“Motorbike,” Francis said.

“Where did you leave it?” Amanda asked.

“If you really want to know, it’s not far from your house,” he said, looking at Jesse. “In the trees where your road meets the road into town.”

“What’ll happen when they find it?” Amanda asked.

“I’m not too worried about the bike, although it did cost me a small fortune. It’s registered to a false address and a man who doesn’t exist.”

They set out parallel to the interstate, keeping out of sight among the trees. At one point they reached an open field with no cover from the road and Francis made them walk around it, adding ten minutes to the trip. They saw the truck stop twenty minutes later.

There were two trucks in the parking lot. One was a blue Peterbilt trailing a flatbed full of steel beams. Next to it sat a flat-nose Mack Ultraliner with a box trailer. Both The Mack and its trailer were decorated in the same detailed paint job, an airbrush painting of a long mountain range below a cloudy gray sky.

“You guys stay here,” Francis said. “I’m going to take a look around.”

“What’s your plan?” Amanda asked. “Jump into the back of the trailer and hope for the best?”

“No. I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

Francis walked to the parking lot, which was really just a large plot of unpaved dirt, and around to the front of the trucks. The Peterbilt had Canadian plates, but the Mack was registered in Tennessee. In the middle of the Mack’s driver door the artist had written
John’s MH Ultraliner
in red cursive letters.

Francis reached into his backpack, took out a black beanie and put it on before walking up to the front door of the diner and taking a look inside.

A thin man in a green and black plaid shirt and bright yellow cap sat at the counter eating. The other driver was sitting in the end booth with his back to the wall.

Francis guessed he weighed about 350 pounds. His stomach was partly folded onto the table. There were two empty plates in front of him and two with food on them, not including the one he was currently eating from. He wore a black T-shirt with the Harley Davidson logo on it, but Francis didn’t think Harley made a bike that would be of any use to this man. He took one last look around and walked into the diner.

What greeted him was the smell of rich food and boiling oil. It made him realize how hungry he was. Francis walked forward along the faded line in the black and white checkered linoleum, past the man sitting at the counter and took a seat on a stool two places down. A man in his fifties wearing a stained chef’s apron was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. He appeared to be fighting a losing battle to hang on to his few remaining teeth.

“I’ll be right with you,” he said and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Francis studied the two guests, trying to guess who was the American. He didn’t want to offend either of them by getting it wrong, so he just said, “Which one of you boys is the proud owner of that doozy of an Ultraliner out there?”

The one at the table raised his hand. He pointed first to himself, then at his mouth to indicate he intended to talk when he’d finished chewing.

“That’ll be me,” he said, patting his stomach.

“That’s one hell of a paint job,” Francis said.

“Cousin’s an artist,” he said. “Took him two years on account of my bein’ gone most of the time.”

The big man had a heavy southern drawl. The other driver appeared either not to understand, or to be uninterested in the conversation. Francis thought he was probably French Canadian. Before Francis could say anything else the man beat him to it. “You lookin’ to go somewhere, stranger?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Francis said.

“Quebec’s where I’m headed. You’re welcome to share the load. But I warn you now, I like ZZ Top and Credence. If that disagrees with ya, you’ll be better off waiting for the next bus.”

“Green River was the first album I ever bought,” Francis lied.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” the man said. “Take a seat. I like you already.”

– – –

When Francis wasn’t back after twenty minutes, Jesse and Amanda started getting worried.

“Jesse, what the hell are we doing?” Amanda said. “How do we even know what he’s saying is true?”

“You think he’s crazy?”

“I don’t think he’s
crazy
,” Amanda said. “But he’s definitely weird. Did he tell you who he is or how he knew about the money?”

“No. But I think he might have been following the woman. He doesn’t even care about the money. He just wanted the hard drive.”

“And the men he said he killed? Who were they?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was following
them
. But if we’re in danger like he says, I think we’re better off
with
him. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, that’s what worries me,” Amanda said. “He seems to know exactly what he’s doing. You think he’s a cop?”

“No way,” Jesse said.

“Then what? Some kind of stray wandering hero?”

“Something like that.”

“Jesse, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You think he’s one of those kick-your-ass-anytime army guys?” Amanda said.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what you call them, but yeah, I think he’s a kick-your-ass-anytime army guy of some kind. Maybe a SEAL or something.”

“He looks more like a human to me,” Amanda said.

“Stop it. You know what I mean.”

“No, Jesse. I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“A Navy SEAL. They’re like Special Forces. All that undercover, covert ops shit.”

“You mean he’ll get to be governor of California one day?”

“Mandy, stop kidding around, this is serious.”

“That’s how I deal with serious shit, Jesse.” Amanda said. “Or have you forgotten?”

Jesse looked at her and saw she wasn’t joking.

“Well I don’t think
he’s
kidding around,” Jesse said and pointed towards the diner. Amanda moved forward to look.

“Wow,” she said. “I think he’s befriended the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

Jesse, who had once been an avid collector of comics, thought the man resembled more what the Kingpin might look like if he became five feet shorter without losing any weight. The man walking next to Francis was at least a foot taller and probably three times as heavy. They disappeared behind the trailer. A moment later they saw the cab of the truck with the paint job rock back and forth several times. Francis came around to the passenger’s side, climbed up the steps and got in.

“Great. He’s decided to go on without us,” Amanda said.

“I don’t think so,” Jesse said. “He probably hasn’t told him about us yet.”

A minute later Francis opened the door and climbed down. “Guys. You can come out now.”

His name turned out to be John Mathis, Big John to his friends. He was from Murfreesboro, Tennessee and owned a two-truck fleet that he ran with his cousin. They transported car seats made in Nashville to a Ford plant outside Quebec. The first thing he did when he met Amanda was make her feel guilty for calling him the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man by being one of the nicest people she had ever met. He showed them into the sleeping cabin behind the seats, which looked more like a small living room. There was a TV, fridge and microwave. The folding bed had been pushed up and turned into a couch complete with cushions and armrests. Big John offered them coffee then pointed to a cabinet mounted to one side of the cabin and told them to help themselves to his personal stash of Twinkies, Hostess Cupcakes and Oreos. Francis gave them each a Styrofoam box containing a freshly cooked cheeseburger and fries.

Big John started the truck and put it in first gear. No sooner had they set off than he turned and said, “I’m gonna kill the lights back there and pull the curtain now. Border’s not far.”

They sat listening in darkness as the truck rumbled to a stop and Big John rolled down his window.

“Hey there, Mike, how’s life been treatin’ ya?” Big John said.

The voice that answered him was jovial and familiar.

“Hey, Big J. Can’t complain. Where you been? I haven’t seen you in a week.”

“Down Arkansas way visitin’ Pauline’s folks. You seen Ned?”

“Yeah, he passed through around six.”

“Well, I’d better get goin’. Wanna try and get back myself by ten.”

“See ya later. Drive safe.”

“You betcha.”

The truck started and began to move. A moment later they were stopping again. Big John leaned over and pulled the curtain aside. “Darlin’, can you reach under the seat there and grab me them cartons of cigarettes?”

Amanda did. A moment later Big John rolled down his window again and said, “Hey, Karl. What’s new?”

“Oh, nothing much. Quiet evening. Your cousin passed through here a while back.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

The door opened briefly and then shut again.

“Same old?” Big John asked.

“I don’t know. The fellas say I should maybe try lights. I tell you what, get me a carton of lights and one of reds. I’ll give it a shot.”

“You got it,” Big John said.

“All right John, I’ll see ya later.”

“Take care,” Big John said and rolled up the window.

This time they moved off and picked up speed. A minute later the light came back on and Big John pulled back the curtain.

“Like stealin’ candy from a baby, right?” he said, smiling.

“I’m impressed,” Francis said.

“The fifty-five’s about two and a half hours away,” Big John said. “You folks might want to get some shut-eye.”

“I’ll join you up front,” Francis said.

“I’ll take you up on that, Big John,” Amanda said and yawned, which got Jesse doing the same.

Francis climbed into the passenger’s seat, then reached back and closed the curtain.

“Y’all want the light out back there?” Big John asked.

“Yes, please. So we can
sleep
,” Amanda said.

“All right, little lady,” Big John said laughing. “Ain’t none of my beeswax either way.”

Amanda leaned her head back on Jesse’s shoulder. “I’m just resting my eyes.”

She was asleep less than a minute later.

Skyline Defense
New York, New York
Tuesday 18 July 2006

0500 EDT

To a casual observer Jack Fielding would probably have looked dead. He had fallen asleep behind his desk with his head tilted back and his mouth ajar.

His eyes suddenly snapped open and he sat forward, looking around the office as if he’d never seen it before. He looked down at his phone, slowly vibrating toward the edge of the desk and picked it up. “Rollins?”

“No, it’s Marius.”

“What time is it?”

“Five. I think you better get up here.”

Jack, still half asleep, found Marius watching the CNN news feed on one of the monitors. The picture changed from the scene of a burnt-out car jammed beneath the undercarriage of a charred John Deere tractor to a woman standing in front of a single story brick building. A brown and white police cruiser with the words
Orleans County Sheriff
stenciled to the door was parked behind her.

“The local sheriff’s office has yet to make a statement to the press,” the reporter said. “This may be explained by the presence of both the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security, who we can only assume want more time to figure out exactly what happened here. All we know for now is that sometime in the early hours of the morning, this sleepy little New England town became the scene of several brutal murders, including that of an unidentified woman just outside the town on Interstate 91. A source at the local paper says some of the victims may have been federal officers, a claim that has yet to be confirmed or denied.”