Blending in isn't too difficult if you wear the Southern "regular guy" uniform of khaki shorts, baseball cap and fisherman sunglasses with a strap running around the back.
I also changed my license plate in a movie theater parking lot when I got into Louisiana and again in Florida. This time I didn't put my stolen plate on another car — that would establish my trail. Instead, I stole two plates, swapped one and kept the other.
The person whose plate is on my car will probably never realize their's has been stolen because I put some other poor schmo's plate on their car.
All of this is great and all, but may be for naught.
Five miles after I take the exit off the I-10 to I-75 I stop inside a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a pee break.
As I'm heading towards the back, avoiding contact, I overhear a heavyset woman complaining to the cashier. "It took us a god damn hour to get through that check point! Sobriety check, my ass. It's all about that asshole on the news… No, the other Virginia Slims."
Check point?
I watch as she waddles out to her car and leaves the gas station going north bound.
"Is there one going north?" a mustached man in a slightly beat up t-shirt asks the cashier.
I follow all of this with great interest.
"I don't know," says the clerk. "But I saw about twelve state troopers heading north."
Shit. They're locking down the highway.
Did I do something to tip them off? Or is it the fact that I'm getting close to Cape Canaveral and iCosmos?
The launch feels like a distant memory, but that was just two days ago. I landed the plane in the desert yesterday — so if they thought I was heading home, now would be the right time to try to lock down the roads.
Damn.
I pay for my coffee and go back to my car to look for some other option using the map on my phone.
Other than some small streets, I-75 and everything connected to it is cut off.
Do I risk driving through a smaller town, trying to find another route?
I crane my neck and look up as a helicopter flies south. It's got FBI written on the side in big bold letters.
Yep. This is about me.
I take a moment to read the latest online news.
There's nothing saying that the manhunt is focusing on Florida, but they've definitively announced that I'm the guy that crashed the plane on the border. They've also said that they think I killed the Mexican army soldiers. Wonderful.
Meanwhile, there's nothing on any of the Texas websites about Vaughn or his men. So maybe the DIA is keeping that under wraps — I guess that would be harder to explain?
I still need to get to Markov. He's the magic man who can solve all my problems.
The trouble is that there are a bunch of police between us who are convinced I'm some kind of violent-terrorist cop killer. Plus, there are probably people from the DIA and maybe a few Russians who will kill me on sight as well.
And… everybody I know is probably being watched. I can't ask them for help.
I could take a side road and risk it. Chances are I'll get stopped by some county police — maybe then…
I stop scrolling through the news when I see an article about Tyler Bennet:
BREAKING: US Senator Tyler Bennet reportedly killed in domestic disturbance.
Fuck! I feel my lungs seize up.
They killed him.
They goddamn killed him.
Tyler was worried that they would serve him with some kind of warrant, instead, they shot him and made it look like an ex-lover did it.
It's a sloppy way to silence him, but they're not worried about the long term. They needed to stop him now. And they did.
Christ.
Focus, David. You need to get to Markov. If you don't, you'll get killed too. It doesn't matter if the state or local police stop you, Silverback, whoever the hell he is, will find you and kill you.
All that matters is getting to Markov.
I need help.
Who do I know that they don't know I know?
I'm drawing blanks.
Okay, who do I know that has as much interest in this as I do?
Still nothing.
I fumble with my phone as I try to think of someone, anyone I could go to.
The third item down on Google News catches my eye.
Why do some bloggers insist Astronaut David Dixon is being framed?
What the?
I read the WIRED post twice. The short answer is that some space enthusiasts claim they overheard Russian chatter that contradicts what happened and uploaded it to the internet. But then intelligence officials debunked the YouTube video of the audio as a hoax.
One name stands out in the article, Laney Washburn. Where do I know her from?
Of course.
The Glitter Menace.
I do a search and realize she only lives eight miles away.
Can I trust her?
Do I have a choice?
52
Menace
I'm not sure where I expected the Glitter Menace to live. But a trailer park, admittedly a well-kept one, wasn't in the equation.
Blue Water Cove is eight streets of double-wides with tiny yards. It's the kind of place retirees in the snowbound north dream about moving to. It's modest, but defies the stereotypical description my elitist friends tend to have about who lives in these homes.
The yards are filled with gnomes, flamingos and painted plywood caricatures of grandmothers tending to vegetable patches and cartoony animals.
Laney Washburn's address is towards the back. When I get there, the driveway is empty. It's already dusk, so I feel comfortable enough to sneak around the side and peek in the windows.
I'm afraid to knock on the door and find out her boyfriend is a policeman getting ready to go on duty.
Through an open window in the back, I spot a room full of race car posters. The next window reveals a room with pictures of planets and spacecraft. There's a desk in the corner with an old MacBook covered in glitter. A pair of crutches lays against the wall next to the chair.
This is where the tyrant blogger who helped kill a quarter-billion in government pork sleeps? The disconnect takes a moment to sink in.
There's a flash of headlights in the grass as a car drives down the street. I take a peek around the corner as a van pulls into the driveway.
Laney is behind the wheel with two boys, maybe 8 and 10, jumping around. There seems to be some kind of argument.
She opens the door and puts her crutches on the ground. Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, there's less flash than I saw at the press conference. She looks like a grad student ready to pull an all-nighter in the library. The boys pile out, ignoring her, and head for the porch.
"No video games until your homework is done," she says, trying to keep up.
"Whatever," says the youngest as he slams the door behind him, leaving Laney outside.
I watch as she hops up the porch and balances a crutch so she can open the door.
Maybe now isn't the right time to approach her.
I still don't know if I can trust her. I sure as hell know I can't trust those little jerks.
I go back to the side of the window and wait, trying to keep to the shadows, hoping that I don't get arrested as a peeping tom.
The home is filled with yelling about picking things up and who said what to who. A light flicks on in the race car room and the loud shrieks of a video game begin to emanate from a television as the little jerks start to play a game.
A door slams and a light flicks on in Laney's room. Through a reflection in the wall mirror I see her lean against the wall and let the crutches fall away as she puts her head into her hands.
She wipes her nose with her sleeve then goes over to her computer.