WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (86 - 90)

86

I spent the next half hour pretending to be interested as Pastor Don told me all about his community, his church, his parishioners. Eventually, he shut up and reached across the table and placed a hand on my forearm. “I should be going soon, TC. Miss Rhonda told me about your … your … relationship with Michael Welch. The Bible says that homosexuality is an abomination! I came here to pray for you to be delivered from it!”

“I can pray for myself,” I said. “But thank you.” I just wanted him to leave.

Pastor Don nodded, and I felt kind of bad for being so rude.

As I watched him shuffling out the door and to his car, I thought of a dozen things I could have said that would have been better, but it was too late now. I went back into the kitchen, took my juice glass to the sink. The microwave clock said 10:14.

I stood with my back to the sink, resting my hands on the counter and wondering what the preacher had meant about the Bible and homosexuality. What made him think that I had anything to do with that?

Rhonda Gates would have no doubt made it her business to know everything about her tenant. If Welch/Mulligan was gay, and had mentioned that a friend, or maybe someone who was more than a friend would be coming to stay, she would be watching, waiting for an opportunity to check out the new arrival.

Apparently, Welch’s friend had not yet moved to Messerton, which meant Rhonda Gates and Pastor Don must have assumed that I was Welch’s friend . . . or current significant other. My mind was racing full speed now. If Mulligan . . . I mean Welch, had told Rhonda Gates that a friend would soon be coming, how long did I have before he actually arrived? Days? Minutes? And what would I do when he got here?

I went into the living room and for the first time actually looked at the photographs on the wall. Two men in tuxedoes, smiling, embracing. There was Welch, and from the look of it, his life partner. Judging by the photograph, probably his spouse. Michael Welch. Gay Marine hit man. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I said aloud, quoting Jerry Seinfeld.

87

I couldn’t stay in Messerton. And I’d better be getting out of there fast.

If I stayed, I would be caught. I would be tried for murder. I would spend the rest of my life face down, ass up in a prison cell with some dude with more tattoos than teeth.

I should have thought about a lot of things. Too late now. I had to gather up anything of value—computer, cash, and of course the password list. Just gather them all up and go—now! Get away from Messerton and figure out what came next when I had the luxury of time to think.

I raced through the house, wiping off the refrigerator door handle, the kitchen counter top, chairs, the toilet seat and flush lever, anywhere that I might have placed my hands. I grabbed the computer, the cash that I’d found, and threw my clothes into my backpack.

I hopped into the truck and drove for hours, well into the night, putting as many miles behind me as I could. I needed a good night’s rest, so I checked into a Hampton Inn just outside of Nashville, Tennessee. Before turning in, I ventured across the street to Walmart, where I purchased some first aid supplies and extra gauze bandages for my wounds.

88

I had Mulligan’s driver’s license and passport. I had his credit cards. And I had a little over four hundred dollars in cash. How far could I get on that? No one was likely to cancel the credit cards. I should be able to use them right up to the limit as long as I made the minimum monthly payments. I resembled the photographs on the passport and driver’s license enough that I would pass a cursory inspection, but did I dare risk trying to go through TSA security to board an airplane?

With no better ideas for a better plan coming to mind, I proceeded to the Port of Tampa. It made me nervous, driving to Florida. Such a long distance. A lot could happen between Messerton, Illinois and Tampa, Florida. I could be driving down the interstate, and someone from my hometown back in Indiana could be in the next lane, look over and recognize me without my even knowing it. ‘Hey, isn’t that Ty Hamilton? I thought he was dead.’

I wondered if it might be possible to just drive to Los Angeles and pick up the cruise from there, but that would mean making inquiries, which would draw attention, the one thing I wanted to avoid. Besides, what better place to lay low than on a cruise ship?

I decided that I would drive to Tampa, but only after dark. I would allow plenty of time, stay at or under the speed limit, and keep a low profile in general.

I paid for an extra night at the Hampton Inn, and slept as much as I could, which wasn’t a lot. I catnapped a lot, rested and meditated with my eyes closed. But I couldn’t shut down my brain. It kept thinking about that desktop computer and all the information it contained, and how I couldn’t very well lug it onto the cruise ship.

89

I left the Hampton Inn shortly after midnight. Sometime around two-thirty in the morning, I pulled into a truck stop just outside Chattanooga. Using Jared Mulligan’s credit card, I filled the tank, then moved the truck away from the pumps and went in to take a leak. While inside, I bought a large roller suitcase, one of those kits that have electrical adapters for anywhere in the world that you would care to go, and a backpack, plus a cup of coffee and a couple of chocolate bars, again using Mulligan’s credit card. I’d always thought it kind of odd that a truck stop would sell luggage. But when you need it, you need it, and I was glad they had it.

On the way back out to the truck, I heard a car with no muffler pulling in. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed a familiar-looking Chevy with no bumper and Tennessee license plate duct taped to the inside of its rear windshield. Ollie and Edie.

I watched as they got out. Ollie slowly shuffling toward the convenience store. Edie scurrying ahead on high heels like she was walking on hot coals. I waited a minute or so, then using their car to conceal me from anyone coming out of the building, I stepped up and peered into the window behind the driver’s seat. They hadn’t even bothered to cover up the backpack. A thief could see it and do a quick smash and grab.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching. I scanned the immediate area, looking for something to use to break the window. There always seem to be rocks lying around when you don’t need one. None here, though. I thought about using the handle of a window squeegee from over by the gas pump, but thought I’d probably only break the plastic handle.

Was there anything in the truck I could use?

A quick smash and grab. Not a stand around, drawing attention to yourself while you take your time looking for something to use, botched-up attempt that gets you caught.

I decided to use the butt of the gun. I pulled it from my waistband, readied myself to deliver the blow. It suddenly occurred to me that there would probably be video surveillance cameras scanning the parking lot.  I couldn’t risk it.

I turned to go. Then, as an afterthought I checked to see if they had bothered to lock the doors.

90

Taking the phone and iPad—there was no cash—and leaving the backpack in the back seat of the unlocked car had been easy and, I figured, low-risk. No damage to the car, and the backpack still there meant that nothing would be noticed. Nothing noticed, nothing reported. Nothing reported meant no need to review the surveillance video.

Ollie and Edie might not even realize that the items in the backpack were gone until much later. Even then, they wouldn’t report that someone had taken stolen property from them. I was glad to have it back, and was anxious to try again to guess the PIN.

For good measure, and payback, I took the license plate off the back window, and also the registration from the glove box and pitched them in a nearby trash can. Not surprisingly, there was no proof of insurance.