Catch up on the previous chapters here
Part Four: The Saddest Experience
The fact that Thom made sure the FBI’s accusation of Rosie was in the news was helpful because Ben didn’t have to try to figure out digital access to keep up with it. Granted, everyone was looking at and talking about and commenting on those stories, but he didn’t want to connect with something attached to his real name and ping something somewhere. That sounded like a spy movie concern, not a real-world ability, but you never knew.
None of the papers Ben bought with cash mentioned anything about an FBI agent in Kalamazoo.
He’d gotten out of state on that first day, so that was probably why. And maybe he hadn’t actually killed him, but … those details were fuzzy. His hands were sore, his knuckles scabbed from rubbing against the inside of the sweaty garden gloves, but he didn’t think punching was all he’d done. When he got into those fogs, he could be … creative.
The drive wasn’t helping his sore back, and he preferred not to use cruise control, so his leg ached, too. Plus he wanted to avoid turnpikes, with their cameras and toll-takers—if there were still toll-takers who’d deal with cash and not just cameras that caught you if you didn’t have a Fast Pass—so the trip was longer than it normally would’ve been. He should’ve made it in a single day, easy, but with everything he wanted to avoid, he was pulling in late on the second day, grouchy from a night in a bad motel along with the drive.
There might have been bed bugs. He hadn’t thought ahead to buy one of those sleeping bag things the travel magazines advertised, so you never actually touched the mattress in a strange place, mostly because he hadn’t pictured himself staying somewhere that barely rated half a star. Ben tried telling himself that it was all in his head, and of course he was nervous, because he was heading to the small town where she lived. He was nervous because he was trying to figure out the best approach.
Once he arrived, he’d probably have to risk a Google search to see if his photo was out there yet. Thom said it wouldn’t be until his first event, but things had changed. If it wasn’t, then he could find a place to stay for the night, and casually scope out what there was to see. Not much, but that could play in his favor. If they happened to cross paths in the dinky little two-block downtown area, that would be perfect, but he couldn’t plan on that.
Ben didn’t try stopping anywhere for lunch because the last thing he needed was to send back a mostly full plate or to rush into the bathroom and throw up whatever he’d managed to force down. He made do with a gas station top-up and an assortment of things that looked less unappetizing than the others, but mostly coffee. The acid played hell with his stomach, but it was already a mess, and he needed to stay alert for the boring drive and in case he saw her on the street.
If she was alone, he could stop her. Ask her for directions to somewhere, the way he’d asked Hillier, to give her time to realize that yes, it was really him. It would be a complete surprise, so he couldn’t be hurt if she didn’t recognize him right away. He was supposed to be in Michigan, not Iowa, and she might panic when she realized. She couldn’t have a handler on her at all times, right? But she’d have to tell him where and when they could meet and properly talk if she was being watched.
If she wasn’t alone, he might still try asking, but having her realize in front of someone else—not the boyfriend not the boyfriend not the boyfriend—could be a problem. Of course one of them could always explain they were old friends and had known each other before, but he didn’t know what her cover story said about before. If he said they’d met in Michigan, but she’d told everyone she was from Wisconsin …
He wouldn’t run into her on the street. Ben kept telling himself that and hoping he was lying at the same time. He wouldn’t run into her on the street, so tonight he’d sleep in a motel—hopefully a step up from last night—and get out his map, or maybe buy a new map that zoomed in right here, and figure out his drive, or his walk, or where to drive to and start walking so he’d pass her apartment building.
The problem with the boyfriend—she didn’t have a boyfriend—was that he couldn’t just leave a note under the door or through the mail slot or whatever they had here and know that she’d be the first to find it. He didn’t even have a name for her, which was just sloppy thinking, but he’d been so focused on the where because he knew the who. He just didn’t know what everyone around her thought when they thought of her.
And thank God, the speed limit was dropping. Ben wasn’t on a main road, and he’d been keeping an eye on his trip odometer, but it was comforting to see the actual Earth match up with those calculations. Although it was also weird to pass a freaking golf course. Wasn’t Iowa supposed to be all corn? Who went to Iowa to play golf?
Not Ben, certainly. He’d never played golf in his life. Golf was bad for the ecosystem. Maybe they didn’t have to clear much of a natural environment out here in the middle of nowhere, but the care and maintenance of the grass … he clucked his tongue to himself as he drove by and switched his thoughts from fertilizer and water wastage to keeping an eye out for hotels, or at least some sort of local diner or something where he could get some dinner and ask about hotels.
As long as his face wasn’t out there yet. It would be best if he could find someplace with a public television permanently on the news, but that didn’t seem like something you’d find around here. In an airport, sure, but this was a small town, no matter how close to a city it was. If an hour or so counted as close.
This was the main road, so it did take him to the quaint little downtown area, which looked like it had been forgotten back in the fifties. Ben pulled into one of the slant parking spaces and tried to stifle a sigh at the fact that it had a number instead of an actual parking meter, but the machines generally took cash along with cards. He had a good amount of change, and he’d wipe the buttons down afterward.
If it had a camera, he’d just deal with it if he couldn’t cover it. He wasn’t wearing anything with his name on it today, but he also didn’t have a hat he could just pull down over his eyes or something … in order to look like someone who was trying to hide.
As Ben got out of the car, he saw a presumably homeless woman shuffling by. When she saw him looking at her, he nodded, but she jerked her head away and changed her course so she wouldn’t pass too close by him. He was pretty sure she was muttering to herself as she went, but that didn’t bother him. She was far too old for his interest, although … would she be homeless? If she’d run away from the boyfriend, then she would be, but if she’d run away from the boyfriend, then the address Hillier coughed up would be useless. She wouldn’t linger in the same small town, no matter how well that town served its unhoused population.
She was here. Hillier said she was here.
He set his sights on a storefront that looked like a diner, or maybe a café: a local place with a name he didn’t recognize instead of a chain. It wasn’t like chains wouldn’t take cash, but he always felt awkward when he went to order and didn’t know all the lingo. He’d stick out like a sore thumb. He might, anyway, since he wasn’t a local, but there just didn’t seem to be the same pressure at a little place instead of something all fluorescently lit and with sleek tabletops and uncomfortable chairs that didn’t want you to linger.
Ben didn’t know how to describe the lights here—they hung down and had shades—and the tabletops were old wood and looked scarred by frequent use and, maybe, the ghosts of old initials. The chairs might not be super comfortable, but they were wood and metal, not plastic. He approached the counter with its bakery case and looked up at the chalkboard menu while the barista—were men still baristas, or did the ending change?—finished with the customer in front of him.
The man greeted him with a smile, and Ben ordered a latte and a sandwich, negotiating the string of follow-up questions: dairy milk was fine. No, no flavor. Yes to all the toppings. For here. Sheesh. Maybe this was why he so rarely went out. It wasn’t just the chains that could annoy you.
Ben paid, accepted his change, and confronted the tip jar. It asked him to decide which of the animated characters was most likely to take over the world, and he didn’t recognize either, so he paused long enough for the barista to turn away before tucking a couple bucks into the left slot. That way he wouldn’t have to make even the smallest of small talk by admitting yeah, that one rocked.
He waited for his coffee and took a seat along one of the walls, sipping absently as he watched the front windows. It wasn’t like he was going to see her walking by, but …
“Here you go,” the barista announced, setting Ben’s sandwich down in front of him and making him jump. “Sorry, man. Head in the clouds.”
At least he didn’t have to respond, since the guy had to report to his post behind the register for the next customer, so he picked up his sandwich, took a bite, and tried to just … let things happen.
Rebecca Frost 
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