Pushkin found the broken and bandaged Reisch in an Amsterdam hospital a month later. “I see nothing in you to justify my eight-hour flight,” he said after appraising the young man. “You are a common criminal unworthy of my time or assistance.”
“Then why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I have things to do?” Reisch waved a shackled and casted arm.
Pushkin laughed only for an instant and then became deadly serious. “I am here to take you away, which will fulfill a promise I made a long time ago. Before that happens, however, you must understand one thing: you mean nothing to me. Your life is mine, and if I, for what ever reason decide to take it, I will.” Reisch drove the back roads of Colorado wondering who his real benefactor had been.
Twenty minutes later, the unbroken fields of snow began to give way to small tracts of homes as he approached a small town. Streetlights and sidewalks appeared next, and then a red light forced him to stop for the first time in two hours. Three of the four street corners had houses on them, but at the fourth corner, there was a convenience store with gas pumps. A police cruiser sat empty just in front of the doors. For an instant, Reisch wondered if Colorado had enough resources to stake out every gas station in the state. It was a ridiculous thought, but the unaccustomed fear rising in his chest somehow made it sound reasonable.
The light changed, and he slowly drove through the intersection. He brushed up against the mind of the officer inside the store, but the contact was so brief that he couldn’t be sure they weren’t looking for him.
The residential area gradually became industrial. Silos and railway cars lined the highway. He drove two more miles and suddenly realized that he was outside the town limits. The streetlights and sidewalks had disappeared, and vacant wheat fields stretched before him. He slowed the SUV and then turned it back towards town.
He made the first left he came to, and the industrial landscape quickly changed to commercial. A large supermarket appeared to his left and a Walmart to his right. The usual complement of fast-food restaurants and video stores came next, and among them, he found a busy gas station. He swung the Mercedes in and coasted in front of one of the sixteen pumps. As he climbed out of the truck, he was happy to see that his right leg was almost back to normal. He fumbled with his wallet, since his right hand was still clumsy, but he managed to pass the attendant two twenty-dollar bills without calling too much attention to himself. It took him several minutes to fill the tank and not a soul noticed him. He began to relax slightly. He was just another mindless American filling up his oversized foreign car with overpriced foreign gas.
Just before climbing back in, he let his mind open up. Dozens of dull, undisciplined minds assailed him. He sifted through them quickly, but none of them had any interest in finding him. His mental search area was only a couple of square blocks, at best, but it was good enough to convince him to stay the night. He climbed back into the Mercedes and drove further up the street. A Motel 6 beckoned, and he drove into the large crowded parking lot. There were a few dark and secluded parking spots in the back, and he nosed the Mercedes into the darkest one and turned off the engine. He waited, listening with both his ears and his mind. Nothing. He climbed out and quickly walked away from the vehicle. It was unlikely that the SUV would have been reported missing this early, but of late, luck had been working against him.
The office was locked, and a small sign told him to ring the bell. He brushed off the small accumulation of snow and pressed the buzzer. He felt a mind stir and a mumbled curse. A moment later, the handle buzzed, and Reisch pulled open the glass door.
“Evening,” said the portly, balding man in a blue T-shirt, with about as much interest as someone scheduling a dental appointment. He collected some papers and pushed them towards Reisch as he stepped up to the desk. “One night?” He had a large anchor tattooed across his left bicep. It covered a once well-muscled arm, which now sagged as much as his belly.
“Yes,” answered Reisch. Brevity served his purpose as well. He quietly filled out the reservation form. His right hand had recovered enough to use the pen that was chained to the desk, but the going was slow. The fat man watched impatiently with bored eyes. Reisch almost laughed out loud when his mind saw the TV dinner and the game show that waited for the surly clerk in the next room.
“Sixty-two fifty,” the man said, taking the forms that Reisch had filled out. He accepted the money from the German and quickly gave him his change and a key. “Room 127. Out the door, turn right, halfway down.” He stacked and filed the papers, and then as an afterthought said, “Checkout is at eleven.” Before Reisch could turn, the man had disappeared behind the office door.
Room 127 was exactly what he had expected. Threadbare carpet, cheap furniture, a smell of industrial-strength disinfectant, and an overly hard mattress. The television worked, and he turned it to the network news. Most of the bulletin was about the assassination of the governor. Reisch stripped the bed linen and lay fully dressed on the mattress while waiting for the local news. Twenty minutes later, the local news from Denver began. Again, it was almost all about the dead governor, but near the end of the allotted thirty minutes, the beautiful brunette newscaster switched to something more of interest to Reisch.
“There was other news today. An elderly man was found dead outside of his Colorado Springs home early this morning. Eighty-two-year-old George Van Der was discovered by neighbors just before seven. The police have described the circumstances surrounding his death as suspicious.”
Reisch was impressed with the woman’s ability to look both serious and seductive while describing murder.
“Since the first of the year, there have now been thirty-one murders in and around Colorado Springs. In a related story, a man is being sought for questioning in connection with the death of Mr. Van Der, as well as for an assault on a Colorado Springs patrolman.”
Two black and white sketches filled the screen, and with little surprise, Reisch recognized his own face. The image on the right showed him in a hat with dark glasses, but the one on the left was a dead-on likeness.
“. . stable condition with undisclosed injuries. The assailant is described as being six feet five inches, two hundred pounds, and wearing a black overcoat and pants. He was last seen driving a stolen black late-model BMW. The police ask that if anyone has seen this individual, they contact the Colorado Springs Police Department, or the Colorado State Police.” The brunette had reappeared, and two phone numbers floated beneath her. “This individual is considered armed and extremely dangerous and should not be approached.”
“Mandy, do the police have any comment on this unprecedented outbreak of violence?” The venerable, white-haired anchor set up his sexy co-anchor.
“Well John, as you know, the local, state, and federal authorities have been looking into this problem for a while now, and they admit to being stumped. Usually, this type of violence indicates a gang or drug problem, but that’s simply not the case here. What we are seeing are previously normal citizens suddenly becoming extremely violent. The Colorado Health Department has also looked into this, but they haven’t been able to provide an explanation either. At this current rate, Colorado Springs will log more murders this year than Chicago, New York, Philadelphia, and of course, Denver.” She managed to maintain both her grave look and the sparkle in her eyes.