Author's Note: This more or less fits with chapter sixty six of Witness, timewise.
Diary of a Protected Witness Part 54
Finding the Way Home
It had been a long couple of days since I left my babysitters behind. I'd made my way to a gas station a few minutes from the safe house, only to discover I was a good two days' drive from Euphoria.
Hell, it took me nearly half an hour just to find it on the map, it was such a tiny speck!
Once I did, I knew the FBI car hadda go. I couldn't drive it twenty or more hours and risk having someone notice its position had changed.
So I did as I'd planned, and dropped it off in a commuter lot. I might've tried riding a bus at least part of the way to my destination, but it was the middle of the night and I needed to put some distance between myself and that GPS unit.
I had no choice but to try hitchhiking, and hope a cop didn't spot me--since that wasn't allowed on a limited-access highway.
I got lucky when a trucker saw the braid and pulled over for me, thinking I was a stranded female. And I give him credit; when he realized his mistake, he was gracious enough to let me climb up into the cab anyway--especially when I waved a couple of twenties and told him I didn't care where he let me off, as long as we'd made some progress in the right direction.
He let me ride with him the better part of the night, leaving me at a truck stop when he had to turn away from the route I wanted to travel. I wished I could've slept while I had the chance in that nice, warm cab--but I was afraid to let my guard down. It was bad enough I'd used the braid to procure my ride, thus risking recognition if the trucker caught a newscast of the Khushrenada trial.
I decided to rest awhile in a booth at the truck stop, sipping a cup of coffee and nibbling on one of the snack bars I'd brought along.
Damn, I was tired.
Turns out recovering from major surgery takes longer than a week or two. And though it had been closer to three, I thought, I was far from a hundred percent.
You don't know how tempting it was to dial up Trowa's number on one of those cell phones and ask him to come get me.
God, it would've been wonderful to just put myself in his capable hands and let him take me where I needed to go. But I couldn't. As far as he knew, I was dead. And even if I convinced him otherwise, it would just put him in as much danger as I was in, if he came after me.
That was the same reason I couldn't call Heero. I mean, aside from not knowing his phone number, which I could probably get from directory assistance, I didn't want to put him at risk by contacting him if he was under FBI surveillance.
Hell--if they knew what he meant to me, crooked agents like Webster would have only to nab Heero and threaten his life, in order to reel me in.
No. Until the verdict was in, I didn't dare contact anyone I cared about.
Y'think I felt all alone that night in the woods with Heero and Wufei, after we'd fled from the log cabin? Well, this was ten times worse. To know there were people who cared about me and would want to rush to my rescue, and yet not dare contact them--? It was Hell, pure and simple.
"Hey, y'okay mister? You look a little pale," commented the waitress, pausing by my booth to see if I needed more coffee.
"Just tired," I said wearily. "I just need to rest a few minutes and get back on my way."
She gave me a sad, sympathetic smile. "Take y'time. It's not like anyone else needs that table. Rest as long as you like."
So I did. I must've spent a couple of hours, just half-dozing and soaking in the warmth of that diner. Then I pulled myself back together, gathered up my backpack, and set out walking again as the sun was rising and the chill night air was gradually warmed to a tolerable temperature.
By midday, I'd hitched another ride and even managed a brief nap, which ended rather abruptly when the trucker leaned over to touch my shoulder and I nearly broke his wrist.
Ah, yeah--he said he understood, but he let me off at the next rest stop, claiming he had to take a detour from the main highway. I couldn't blame him; I know I looked like road kill by then--haggard and pale. He probably thought I was on drugs or something.
I didn't dare keep hitchhiking along the thruway, in case a cop came along and caught me--so I turned aside to one of the secondary roads on the map, resigned to taking the long way to Euphoria.
And I ended up walking again...and walking...and, well, walking. There just wasn't enough traffic on the small road to net me a willing ride. Folks don't pick up hitchhikers much any more.
Eventually I tucked my braid under the parka, figuring that if it wasn't an asset, helping me snag a ride, I should keep it hidden for anonymity's sake. Probably should've done that from the get go, but like I said, folks sometimes assumed I was a chick long enough for me to charm them into picking me up anyway.
When it started to get dark, I knew I had to find a place to rest--so when I stumbled across a culvert that ran under the road, I picked the lock that held the metal grate in place, and ducked inside.
It wasn't raining, which was good. The cement tunnel was fairly dry as a result. And while it wasn't particularly warm, I had the thick parka to huddle into. All in all, I'd spent more miserable nights as a kid.
Of course, back then I hadn't just had major surgery. So the next time I woke after curling up with my backpack for a pillow, it was broad daylight and I could hear traffic rumbling over the road above me.
Shit--I'd wasted God knew how many hours of daylight!
But when I tried to drag myself up to resume my journey, my body protested vehemently. My legs were aching from the miles of walking the previous day, and there was a dull pain in my midsection, under the long, pink scar from the surgery.
I ended up staying in my little shelter for a couple of extra hours, sipping a sports drink and nibbling one of the snack bars while I stretched and flexed my sore muscles. Then I made myself get up and get moving before I lost an entire day of travel.
The road I was on finally led me to a small town where there was a diner. And though I suspected I looked a wreck, I decided to chance a hot meal, and maybe ask if there was a hotel nearby.
The waitress there was a matronly lady, who gave me a look that was a combination of pity and disgust. But she also gave me an extra-large helping of the beef stew they were serving.
It wasn't in a class with Pops' cooking; but it was hot and filling, and after a couple of cups of coffee to wash down some apple pie, I felt better than I had all day.
"Hey, is there a hotel around here?" I asked the portly brunette when she came to drop off the check.
"Couple miles north," she told me, running a critical eye over my rumpled clothes and messy hair. "You might catch a ride with Charlie if you wait a bit."
"Charlie?"
"Local constable. He comes for a late lunch every day, and then heads for the station, which is right next door to the hotel."
Constable--as in cop.
"Ah, that's okay," I said carefully. "I don't mind the walking."
She gave a wry snort. "Y'look like you can barely stagger, kid."
I gave her one of my patented cocky grins. "Looks can be deceiving."
She stuck her pen behind an ear and narrowed her eyes. "'S there a reason you don't want to meet up with a cop, sonny?"
"Yeah," I said flatly. "They've never been particularly nice to me."
She laughed at that, apparently deciding I wasn't some kind of fugitive. "Aw, Charlie's not like that. He's always willing to lend a hand to someone down on their luck."
"Thanks anyway," I told her, handing over a bill that would cover the meal and a decent tip. "I gotta get going. I need to be somewhere in a couple of days."
She raised an eyebrow. "Goin' to see a sweetheart, are ya?"
"It shows?"
She smiled kind of wistfully. "When you mentioned you needed to be somewhere, you got that faraway, dreamy look, like you're thinkin' of someone special."
"I am," I told her. "And I can't wait to see 'em again." There was no need to scandalize her by stressing the "him," but I also wasn't gonna lie about someone so important to me.
She didn't seem to notice the difference, and wished me well as I got up and left.
I resumed my trek, turning aside well before I got to the hotel, in case the well-meaning woman sent her friend Charlie to track me down and help me out. It meant another night sleeping outside, but like I said, I was more or less used to roughing it.
Around twilight, as I was once again looking for a shelter in which to spend the night, Davis' cell phone rang loudly.
Frankly, it about scared me out of my wits, as I'd forgotten it was tucked in my jacket pocket.
But once I calmed my racing heart, I took it out and flipped it open. "Maxwell's Bar and Grill!" I said flippantly.
"Dav--Maxwell?" came Alexander's breathless voice. "What the fuck's going on?"
"You tell me. That asshole Webster tried to off me a couple days ago."
"Tried--? What?" Alexander sputtered for a moment. "Where is he now?" he asked sharply. "Are you okay? Where's Davis?"
So I, ah, told him. I told him in great and gory detail how his trusted agent had attempted to strangle me with a garden hose. And then I told him how I got lucky and knocked the bastard out.
I even explained that I'd left his two goons tied up in the shed, though I didn't go into details about the duct tape. I wanted to surprise him with that when he got there. I did give him a hint, though, when I told him he should hurry before the pair got hard for each other and had an inter-office romance...heh, heh.
"Where are you now?" he finally asked, when I took a break from my rant and let him get a word in edgewise.
"Far, far away from you, and your crappy organization," I said flatly.
"You left?"
"Well what was I supposed to do--sit there and spoon feed your two thugs until you felt like callin'?"
"You should have called me. I'm sure the number's on Davis' cell."
"I was pissed, Al. I didn't really want to talk to you. I still don't. You almost got me fuckin' killed!"
"I didn't know about Webster. Not until today. I only just got the list of crooked agents, and when I saw his name on it, I called."
"Well thanks--but you're a little late," I sneered. "I'd have been dead days ago, if I hadn't heard the asshole talking to his partner about knowing Sims awhile back." I shook my head, though he couldn't see me. "Here's the deal, Al. Consider me gone."
"Maxwell, you can't--"
"It's Smythe," I snarled. "John Smythe. And don't even bother tryin' to trace this cell phone. It's going into the next dumpster I pass."
I snapped the phone shut and, as promised, located a dumpster behind a strip mall and tossed both cell phones into it.
I was brushing off my hands and rounding the building to look for someplace I might tuck in for the night, when I nearly bumped into a burly man leaving a convenience store with a brown bag in his hands.
"Oh, sorry."
"No problem." He started to head for his truck--a big rig pulled up at the pump out front--and then looked back at me and let his gaze sweep the empty parking lot. "What're you doing out here? You live in the area?"
I shook my head, realizing it must look kind of funny that I was in the middle of nowhere on foot. "Just sightseeing," I shrugged, hefting the backpack. "Wanted to 'see the world,' y'know? Kinda got off the beaten path."
He gave me a long, assessing look. "You seem familiar."
"I got that kinda face." I pulled the collar of my jacket tighter, glad my braid was safely concealed. "Have a nice night."
I was almost at the end of the row of buildings when I heard his voice again. "Need a ride?"
Fuck! I didn't know what to do. He seemed normal enough--like a nice guy trying to do a kid a favor. But if he recognized me--
I turned and looked him over, wanting to trust my instincts, but not so sure of them after what Hilde had done.
He had steady grey eyes and reddish-brown hair--a ruddy complexion, and laugh lines around his mouth, though they were partially shrouded by a short beard.
He smiled at me then, and it was a warm, genuine smile. "C'mon, kid. You look like you need a hand. I don't bite."
I still had Webster's gun tucked inside that backpack--so I knew I could probably defend myself if my judgment of the man proved faulty.
"Which way are you headed?" I asked cautiously.
The gray eyes narrowed fractionally. "East--back to the interstate."
It was the right direction for me, and my weary legs were screaming for relief from the walking, but I still hesitated, afraid my luck couldn't possibly be this good. Not after all I'd gone through.
"I'll take you as far as you want, drop you wherever you tell me to--and forget I ever saw you. Y'got my word."
I took a hesitant step towards him. "What's your name?"
"Max."
Well, if that wasn't a sign, I didn't know what was. And I decided to take a chance on the down-to-earth trucker.
"I'm Solo. An' I'll take a ride as far east as you're goin'."
"You got it."
Max proved to be as good as his word, letting me ride along in his big rig well into the night. He didn't talk much, which was fine by me, because it meant I didn't have to answer questions. Instead we listened to the radio, and eventually I started to relax, watching the miles roll by with a growing sense of anticipation.
We took a late-night break at a crowded truck stop, and although Max wouldn't let me pay for gas, he did allow me to treat him to a meal. We talked a bit then, and while we kept the conversation vague and casual, I was pretty sure he knew who I was.
If he was surprised to see me alive after all the news broadcasts highlighting my spectacular "death" at the courthouse, he never let it show.
Hell, maybe he thought I was a ghost and he was having some sort of paranormal encounter. It didn't much matter to me, as long as it got me closer to Euphoria.
But when I was up at the cash register paying the bill, while Max had headed out to refuel, I noticed a sleek, black car pulling into the parking lot, slowly cruising the line of trucks as if searching for something.
Fuck!
My best guess was that Alexander had done a wickedly fast trace on the position of those cell phones. And since that strip mall was along a major trucking route, his agents might have guessed I hitched a ride. Or maybe the store owner had seen me head off with Max, which could mean the Feds even had a vehicle description or license number to track.
Double fuck!
Why'd he have to send smart agents after me? Why couldn't he have sent a couple of dummies like Webster and Davis?
I gathered up my change, watching the car to see if anyone got out, and when it pulled into a parking place, and a guy in a goddamned three-piece suit emerged, I decided I'd seen enough. I couldn't stick around and take a chance on them either spotting me, or talking to Max. Hell, even the waitress might recall my face, if they had a picture.
I ducked out the side entrance and circled around to the back of the building, where the trucks were headed the opposite way. There was an unlocked panel truck, whose driver was around the front checking the oil--so I rolled up the back door just enough to squeeze inside and then pulled it back down.
When the engine started up a moment later and the vehicle lurched into motion, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Yeah, I was in a smelly, bouncy, unheated cargo area. But I had a full stomach, and I was headed away from the Feds.
I was also headed away from Euphoria, which pretty much sucked. And while I had my wallet, my backpack was in Max's cab with the only change of clothes I owned, and the last of my portable food.
Damned FBI!
They had fuckin' lousy timing, that's for sure. I'd been hoping to have Max drop me off at the exit nearest Euphoria. Now I'd have to wait for this truck to stop, duck out before the driver caught me and kicked my ass, and find an alternate route to my destination. I didn't dare use the main highway any more.
It was back to secondary roads for me, when the panel truck pulled into a rest stop. I rolled out and bolted before the driver had even finished parking, and once I vaulted the chain link fence along the limited access highway, I was able to hike my way to a winding country road.
I wasn't sure how much backtracking I'd just done, but I stubbornly turned east again, and resumed walking.
TBC...
Back to Snowdragonct's Fanfictions Page