Page 41

Unfortunately, she’s not letting the topic go, and her next words kill my mood. “What person is ruining your life then?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. My gaze returns to the door, and I can’t look at her anymore. “That would be me.”
A crack of thunder wakes me up, just like it did days ago. I jump awake, banging my head against the top of the car.
I guess that was a tame dream compared to the nightmares. I’m not sure what my subconscious is trying to say, but when I glance over at the passenger seat and see Fake Porscha sitting there, silently tracing raindrops down the window, I figure my brain has officially given up on making sense.
I got away from Porscha, but it’s hard to remember how long ago. The truck I’m in I stole from the first residence I spotted, and for two days all I did was sit down the road on a turnoff and deal with the fucking wound in my thigh. I did some rough stitches, switched out the bandages, and tried to determine how bad off I was. I couldn’t tell, so I knocked back a handful of pain killers and let the meds lull me to sleep.
If Porscha found me while I was unconscious, I’d be fucked by now. But the pain meds, the pain itself and these annoying withdrawals from the damn ketamine slow drip are really fucking with me. I can’t quite tell how long it’s been since I escaped. Porscha mentioned May 5th when I was at the house, but how many days ago was that?
Peering through the rain, I can’t make out much of anything in the dark. I won’t turn on the headlights for fear of being spotted, and as of now I’ve managed to stay in this spot back in the trees and go unnoticed. It’s given me some time to get some sleep that isn’t drug induced, and I’ve torn through the nonperishable food over the last couple days whenI’m conscious. The rest of the pain meds hang out in their bottle, a necessary evil I submit to when I can’t tolerate the pain anymore.
My body is going through withdrawals and it sucks. Ketamine definitely became a regular thing, and without it I feel nauseous and get the shakes. Fake Porscha turns to study me and I know for sure that my mind is playing tricks. She’s too easy to see, like there’s light someplace in the dark. I think it’s late afternoon or evening right now, but I can’t see much with the branches and clouds. “Are you dying?”
I groan. No, I don’t think so. I’ve done some crude maintenance on my wound, and for now it’s not hurting as badly as when Porscha stabbed me and the bleeding finally stopped. I might be making things worse internally, but I don’t think it’s killing me. It’s just one of those fears I don’t like thinking about. “No.”
She glares at me, and a burst of lightning illuminates everything but her. “I’m looking for you.”
Yeah, she is. Real Porscha isn’t giving up. We haven’t crossed paths, but I’ve been keeping watch when I’m conscious in case one of my enemies manages to find me. I’m still not entirely sure where I am, and the truck that I hot-wired is old and out of date but still has some gas in the tank. Whoever this beater belongs to, it works well enough to get me moving through the swamplands.
I’ve determined which way is north, and if I head south I think I’ll cross either Citrus Grove or the main highway. I’m somewhere in the backwoods of Florida, so it’s only a matter of time before I happen across a big city or major road. I’m not in a rush to find either.
“If you stay out here, you’ll spend your life running,” Fake Porscha says. “Or you can go and see my daughter and go back to prison. Both options suck.”
I glare at her. Yeah, my subconscious isn’t helping me out anymore. “Going back means death. They’ll put me back on Death Row. Maybe try to get my date moved up, or move me up the priority list.”
“So don’t go back,” she tells me. “Maybe you should go to Colorado. It could be a surprise. You could start over.”
I shake my head. Maybe the wound is affecting me more than I thought, because that’s an ignorant idea. “Jo and Vinny belong in Colorado. Alastair Constantine has no future there. Anyone looking for me could easily connect the dots that way.”
She hums, and we fall into silence. I close my eyes and drop my head back against the headrest, trying to think.
I don’t have a plan. My plan was to be a royal pain in the ass until I died, and keep mostly to myself at the prison. I didn’t expect Porscha to appear from beyond the grave, but when Gabriel and Sterling first showed up complaining about a copycat I knew there was a possibility she was still alive.
Dragging Jo out of the basement was my priority. People think I was trying to get away, but I thought maybe she’d live if she wasn’t consumed by the flames.
Porscha wasn’t the corpse in the basement. I always knew that. The authorities inferred, and the FBI agreed, so I went along with the idea. I didn’t know who the body was anyway, so I couldn’t give them anything else to work with.
She’s the kind of demon that never really goes away. But when I open my eyes, Fake Porscha is gone. Peering around the car, I don’t see her anywhere.
Leaning back again, I take a steadying breath. My imagination can’t contend with the real monster lurking somewhere in the dark. I know Porscha’s out there looking for me. There’s no reason to not believe that. I need to get some sleep now, because as soon as the weather lifts, I’ll be on the run again.
~~~
It’s midday the next morning before I try to drive anywhere again. I’ll take this truck as far as I can and then abandon it. I’m not sure the guy I stole it from even knows it’s missing yet. So far I’ve traveled north, hoping to find a road that points to Georgia.
Once I cross state lines, there’s no hiding my escape from the world. The FBI won’t be able to hide me anymore, and it will make national news. When and if I’m caught, the penalties will be severe. I can’t say it’ll be worse than Death Row, but I can believe it’ll suck.
I’m sleep deprived and maybe a tiny bit delirious, expecting Porscha to appear out of the dark to attack me. The wound in my leg aches today, and that can’t be a good sign. I need to do something better with it, but all I can imagine is leaving here.
A local radio station blasts through the car, and I guess the noise is enough to keep Fake Porscha at bay. This is the most freedom I’ve had in years. No one’s watching, no one can judge. I’m on my own until the tank hits empty and I make my next move. It’ll be goodbye radio at that point, and I’ll be moving along on foot. I’ve moved slowly down the highway, stretching out this tank of gas like I’m stretching out my freedom. I’m afraid of what comes next.
The DJ starts his banter once the song ends. “That was the latest hit from Sleep Token, bringing us around to the top of the hour. We’re reminding folks that there are two known suspects currently on the loose. If you see people fitting the descriptions of Alastair Constantine, a six-foot-five male with pale blond hair and brown eyes, and Porscha Surwright, a five-foot-ten woman with strawberry blond hair and green eyes, please call the FBI tipline.”
I snort. They messed up my description, which is painfully funny. How is anyone supposed to catch me when they aren’t even looking for the right person? The dual eyes throw people off.
I zone out the radio again. People are going to keep looking for us. I’m not sure how long ago it was but one morning when I turned the radio I heard a report about a new body. Is this body eight or somewhere beyond? Sounds like Porscha is still doling out her handiwork, and her kills are becoming more violent and unhinged. She’s losing her edge.