Chaos Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Cash, credit, or check?”

  I hesitated at the thought of writing a check, but decided it would be unwise. “Cash.”

  “All right.” He took the cash and handed me back the change. He then plucked a key from a rack somewhere just beyond my field of vision and handed it to me. “Checkout’s at eleven. Return the key or leave it on the table in your room before you leave. Sign here please.”

  It was a registry of some kind asking for my name, phone number, and license plate. As soon as I gripped the pen, I realized I couldn’t use any real information, and neither could I hesitate for fear the clerk would notice and become suspicious. I accepted the pen and immediately wrote Donald Ashbee, a distant relative, if I remembered right. I then casually wrote out a phony telephone and license plate number. I was initially worried about what might happen if the clerk noticed I wasn’t driving a car, but the way his eyes kept returning to his book let me know that I was probably in the clear.

  As I accepted my key, the young man, using a few well-choreographed gestures, told me how to get to my room.

  The motel consisted of two single-story buildings facing each other. Each room had its own parking stall directly in front of its door. From what I could see, several of the rooms were dark and perhaps empty. I retrieved my bike and, moving quickly past the clerk’s office, pulled it through the open door of my room, leaving the interior dark.

  With the lights off and no car in the parking stall, I was hoping anyone driving by would assume the room was vacant.

  The moment I’d entered the room, the smell of Lysol and bleach assaulted my senses. Even in the dark I could tell the room probably wasn’t on anyone’s five-star list. Half a star? Maybe.

  I didn’t care. It was shelter and there was a bed. And if the odor was any indication, it was very, very clean. I pulled the bedspread off the top of the bed, pulled the cheap room-darkening curtains closed above the room’s heater/air-conditioner, slipped out of my jacket, and collapsed. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, as long as I remained in its center. In moments I found myself beginning to drift to sleep.

  Just a few minutes of rest, I thought.

  Seconds later I was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 4

  The stocky man standing before me had a friendly face. From the way he was dressed, I could tell he was a firefighter. No, not by the heavy clothing and boots associated with firefighting. Nor an ax or even a fireman’s helmet. I knew he was a fireman because of the logo on the black T-shirt he wore and because I was standing inside one of those fire-preparedness trailers you find at most state fairs.

  Tendrils of artificial smoke curled heavenward from beneath the door just behind the firefighter, who was in the process of explaining to me the importance of feeling a door for heat before attempting to open it. I just stood there, watching him.

  Unexpectedly, the firefighter’s head turned with a jerk. He looked directly into my eyes. “Sir! Stop, drop, and roll.”

  I could hear his words, but they weren’t making any sense.

  “Stop, drop, and roll, sir!”

  I looked about me. We were standing in the middle of what was essentially a fifth-wheel trailer. With the couch and the table where they were, it would have been impossible to do what he was asking me to do.

  He took a few steps forward and began shouting even louder. “Stop, drop, and roll!”

  Again, I looked all about me. I was totally confused.

  The firefighter’s nose was nearly touching mine when he yelled once more, “STOP, DROP, AND ROLL!”

  I dropped and attempted to roll and . . .

  . . . fell out of bed. Waking from the dream I’d been having, I landed soundly on the carpeted floor of my motel room. It was dark, and I’d barely managed to remember where I was when the motel window exploded under a sudden barrage of gunfire.

  The curtains jerked and writhed as a hailstorm of bullets riddled them. I’d awoken from one nightmare only to find myself smack-dab in the middle of another!

  I snaked my way toward the wall, under the window, away from bullets that were mercilessly peppering the mattress, wall, and nightstand. I curled up into a ball and threw my hands protectively over my head. An occasional round would hit the metal housing of the air conditioner beside me, and I would wince, fully expecting to be hit at any moment.

  After an eternity of terror, the heavy curtains abruptly stopped moving. I heard the sound of tires screeching—a vehicle peeling out. Without the glass in place, the noise was loud, and I could smell the burning rubber the driver had left behind.

  I lay there, hearing only the pounding of my heart and the sound of my breathing as I struggled for the air I’d unconsciously withheld from my lungs since the start of the attack. When I did move, it was slowly.

  My hands came away from my head. I had several small cuts on the back of them, undoubtedly from some of the glass that had exploded inward. My knees were also cut from small bits of glass that had ground into them through my Dockers when I’d unceremoniously inched my way to the heater/air-conditioner.

  I got on my knees, ignoring the stinging pain, sat up, and slowly parted the tattered remnants of curtains. A few doors on the opposite side of the motel were beginning to open, lights were turning on, curtains hesitantly being pulled aside as curious occupants worked up the courage to look into the frighteningly silent parking lot.

  In only minutes, someone would begin asking questions, inquiring about my well-being. And the truth was, I could have used that. But with that concern would come calls for help. Police would be notified and perhaps an ambulance dispatched. Obviously, I just couldn’t deal with those right then.

  I had to get moving.

  In two steps I reached my mountain bike. A few rounds had nicked it in places, but the tires appeared undamaged. I reached down, grabbed the red daypack, and flung it over my shoulder. I yanked open the door and awkwardly pulled my bike through the doorway.

  Two men—one I recognized as the student who’d checked me in—had reluctantly been walking toward my door and seemed both startled and relieved to see me emerge in one piece. Wasting no time, I hopped on the bike and headed toward them. They instinctively parted to let me by, as I’d hoped they would, and I quickly rode off toward the street adjacent to the motel.

  It was still quite dark and the traffic was light. Not wanting to take any chances, I immediately steered into a subdivision and began winding my way through it, away from the motel, away from the busier street.

  After nearly ten minutes, I stopped behind a large grocery store. There were a few scattered security lights back there, but it was definitely darker than the well-lit sides or front of the building. There were a few dumpsters in the area, as well as a rather large and conspicuous trash compactor. I pedaled the bike so as to be out of sight between the compactor and building.

  It was a chilly night—in the forties—and I longed for the jacket I’d inadvertently left at the motel. My hands were red and slightly swollen from the cold, and I held them to my mouth, cupping them, blowing into them, trying to warm them.

  A loud thunk from inside the compactor nearly sent me to the ground. But the longer I stood there, the more I was convinced it was one of the grocery store’s employees on the night shift throwing something away. My shallow breathing nearly choked me, and I struggled once more to regain control of my heart rate.

  Only after tending to my hands for a minute or two did I finally have the presence of mind to check my watch. It was just after three in the morning. Only a few minutes past three and here I was out in the open again. Was it only twelve hours ago when my life had ceased being mine? Surely eternity couldn’t be any longer than the past half-day had felt.

  Still straddling the bike, I rolled down the sleeves of my shirt and buttoned them at the wrists. Then I folded my arms across my chest. That was when I noticed my body beginning to shake. I couldn’t stop.

  Shock? I wondered. Are my mind and bo
dy suddenly realizing just how close I’ve come to death and only now reacting to the fear?

  I continued holding my arms close to my body, forcing myself to continue taking deep breaths as I willed myself to calm down, to get control of my body’s natural reflexes. Two or three minutes later, my heart was beating at a steadier rate, and my breathing was no longer ragged and forced.

  Of course my body had been in shock! I had just dodged what had to have been the emptying of a complete magazine from some kind of automatic weapon!

  Whoever was firing into the room clearly wanted to make sure they didn’t miss.

  At this thought, my eyes slammed shut. If I hadn’t rolled . . . if I hadn’t rolled when I did . . . I’d be dead right now! This thought seemed to reverberate throughout my head like some lonely voice bouncing off the cold hard walls of a vast and empty canyon.

  I slowly got off my bike, lowered the kickstand, and stumbled a few feet until my back was against the store’s painted cinderblock wall. I began to lower myself to a sitting position. There, on the cold, solid pavement with my hands and arms encircling my legs and pulling them into my body, I tried feebly to get warm.

  I could see spots of blood where glass shards had cut my knees.

  I should be dead, I thought.

  I must have sat there for quite some time before I finally realized just what I was doing. If anybody accused me of overreacting before, what I’d just dodged now validated—even to myself—my actions from the very beginning.

  I was running, but from what, I didn’t know.

  I remembered the card, the pills, the knife in the headboard. I then remembered something the mysterious caller had said over the phone hours earlier. It was something about almost being “ready.”

  Was that it? Was the attack at the motel supposed to be the moment I was to have been killed? But then who knew I was headed there?

  My mind refrained from interrogating itself any further. One thing was pure and simple: I was being hunted, and not just by the police. At that moment it didn’t matter why. Not with me being exposed as I was. I thought I’d been safe using a phony name, paying cash, and going someplace I normally wouldn’t have gone. But in spite of my mediocre precautions, I’d been tracked. And apparently without much effort.

  I raised my head and looked around me, beyond the dim security lights of the building. To either side were the bright lights of the parking lot. I was sitting behind a twenty-four-hour grocery store. One I’d frequented a few times, in fact. The store was only a mile or so from my apartment.

  I stood, dug my hands into my pants pockets, and slowly began walking past the trash compactor and the two bay doors used by semis for unloading freight, expecting any minute for someone to round the corner of the building. I stopped short of the end of the building by a few feet and looked off into the distance, scanning the dark horizon to the north and northwest.

  I needed a safe place to hide, someplace where I could put my thoughts together and figure out my next move. I needed a place where I knew for certain I wouldn’t be disturbed or discovered.

  Although my eyes couldn’t discern anything on the horizon in that inky-black darkness, beyond the light traffic, beyond the streetlights and buildings, I could see in my mind’s eye the foothills. At the top of one of those mounds was a large capital M marking the home of the Colorado School of Mines. Near the top, west of the M, was a place I’d gone mountain biking before. Perhaps I could get there without being noticed.

  The irony of where I was headed didn’t escape me and, in fact, drew a nervous and unexpected grin. I was heading for the protective safety of Mount Zion.

  Whoever had shot at me probably assumed I was dead. I had no doubt the shooting would make the local news by morning, and by then I’d have just enough time to get to Mount Zion before my hunter caught wind of my fortunate escape.

  No one should have survived that barrage of . . .

  I pulled my mind away from the thought and tried to focus on what my mind’s eye was not only seeing quite clearly, but also desperately longing for in the distant foothills.

  I turned and began walking toward my bike and the red pack. I knew where I was headed next, but I also knew I couldn’t go there unprepared.

  Pedaling a block to a small convenience store with an outside telephone kiosk, I hurriedly checked the phonebook for the address of a store I’d seen on a television commercial. Satisfied, I slowly began pedaling south.

  The store wouldn’t open for several more hours, but moving in the dark seemed the logical next step. Not only would the movement help to keep me warm, but I would get there in plenty of time to find a good hiding place for my pack and mountain bike.

  When the store did open, I hoped I would get the chance to try to free myself from the knot I was inadvertently tied up in.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Whoa, you look like you’ve been through a war already, pal.”

  The burly, middle-aged man at the checkout counter was a bit heavyset but pleasant. Dressed in a well-worn, olive green T-shirt and jeans, he appeared very much in his element.

  Trying not to miss a beat, I went with the story I’d formulated while waiting for the Army surplus store to open. “I’ve been through my entire garage and I can’t for the life of me find my tent and sleeping bag. I could have sworn I’d stored them in the attic. Nothing. I’ve been on my hands and knees cleaning out the garage and still nothing. I’m supposed to help our community Scoutmaster. We’ve got a campout tomorrow. Can you help me out?”

  The man grinned at the mention of Scouts. “Oh sure. If we don’t have it, you don’t need it. Down this way. What size tent you looking for?”

  I chose this store for two reasons. First, I knew from past experience with my own father that if you wanted rugged, quality gear, an army surplus store was the place to go. The new merchandise that filled the front aisles, plus the hodgepodge of used and unique military items I could see at the back of the store seemed to confirm that. Second, I knew it wouldn’t have nearly the kind of security and surveillance equipment I’d find in a Wal-Mart, Target, or any other major retail outlet. I hoped I could slip in and out that morning without leaving any trace of having been there.

  Halfway into the store, the clerk pointed down a couple of aisles. “New tents on the left. Used on the right. Sleeping bags are just one aisle down from here.”

  “Thank you very much. I should have come here in the first place.”

  The man nodded politely and left me to explore the aisles at my leisure. I could have found them on my own, I knew, but I felt I had to come up with some excuse for why I looked as bad as I did. I’d added some ground-in dirt to my knees to help hide the blood, but I certainly didn’t look like the typical shopper.

  I found a tent set up on top of one of the shorter shelving units that caught my eye immediately. According to the sign next to it, it was a Dutch Ground Troop tent. Made of heavy-duty, camouflage-print cotton canvas, it had a sturdy, waterproof PVE floor. I had no clue what PVE was, but from the feel of it, I couldn’t imagine anything coming up through that floor. The tent was about eight-and-a-half feet long (important when you’re just over six feet tall like me), forty-three inches wide, and at the center, just over four feet high. Taller at the head, it tapered down to where the feet presumably would be. It would work perfectly.

  Making sure that the rolled-up tent I’d selected came with its own poles and stakes, I tucked it under my arm. For forty dollars I wasn’t going to find anything better.

  For another forty-five dollars, I found a mummy bag that promised to keep me warm in temperatures as low as five degrees. When rolled up, it was extremely small and lightweight. I tucked one of those under my other arm.

  I was sorely tempted to buy a used army coat from a nearby rack. I decided against it, however, not wanting it to appear that I was running for the hills. I could buy one later from someplace else, I figured, without drawing nearly as much attention to myself.

  Inste
ad, I hooked a metal canteen with my finger and took my purchases back to my helpful friend at the cash register. It would be an awkward bundle to carry on a bike, but I couldn’t see any other solution. The tent I figured I could probably strap with my belt somehow to the rack that sat just behind my seat. The red daypack I’d snatched from my apartment I could wear on my back, the canteen over my shoulder. The sleeping bag would fit under the handlebars or could be wedged under the extra length of brake cable looping from the front of my bike.

  I’d make it work.

  I paid the cashier, thanking him for his help.

  After successfully securing the tent to the rack behind the seat and wedging the sleeping bag beneath my handlebars, I mounted my bike and began weaving my way to my second target.

  It was early in the morning and the sky was gray and overcast. Most of the morning traffic was confined to the outlying highways and interstate. Hoping I wasn’t attracting a lot of attention, I took a path up the center of Golden, near the eastern edge of the School of Mines. Near the school was a small convenience store that I was sure had an ATM machine inside.

  Twenty minutes later I spotted the store up ahead. A woman stood at the gas pumps, fueling a worn Dodge Neon, and I saw only a handful of shoppers inside the store. I left my bike by the side of the store, the red daypack jammed between it and the building, and quickly went inside. I was a mess and was still worried about drawing attention to myself. But then I thought, How many people really take a close look at anyone they run into at the gas station?

  According to my watch, it was close to nine o’clock in the morning. Normally, I’d be right in the middle of my first-hour English class, and as I opened the door of the convenience store, I couldn’t help wondering what my students would do today. Of course, Ann would bring in a substitute. But did the teachers or students know anything about what was taking place? What was the talk in the faculty lounge?

  The ATM machine was near the door. I figured I should get some more money before leaving the area. If I could pull another three hundred dollars out, then perhaps I’d have a better chance at surviving while I tried to figure things out.