Dark Matter(77)

She doesn’t answer.

Just stares at me strangely, then reaches out and takes the Glock from my hand and returns it to its resting place under the glass.

I ask, “Did I say something wrong?”

“You’re Jason, right?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I’ve been standing here trying to put it all together, to make sure I wasn’t crazy. You don’t know my name?”

“No.”

“See, I think you’re messing with me, and it’s not a wise—”

“I’ve never spoken to you before. In fact, I haven’t been in this store in probably four years.”

She locks the cabinet and returns the key ring to her pocket.

“I think you should leave now, Jason.”

“I don’t understand—”

“If this isn’t some game, then you have a head injury or Alzheimer’s or you’re just plain crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You really don’t know?”

“No.”

She leans her elbows on the counter. “Two days ago, you walked in here, said you wanted to buy a handgun. I showed you the same Glock. You said it was for home defense.”

What does this mean? Is Jason2 generally preparing in case I possibly return, or is he actually expecting me?

“Did you sell me a gun?” I ask.

“No, you didn’t have a FOID card. You said you needed to get cash. I don’t think you even had a driver’s license.”

Now a prickling sensation trails down my spine.

My knees go weak.

She says, “And it wasn’t just two days ago. I got a weird vibe from you, so yesterday, I asked Gary, who also works the gun counter, if he’d ever seen you in here before. He had. Three other times in the last week. And now, here you are again.”

I brace myself against the counter.

“So, Jason, I don’t ever want to see you in this store again. Not even to buy a jockstrap. If I do, I’ll call the police. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

She looks scared and resolute, and I would not want to cross her in a dark alley where she took me for a threat.

I say, “I understand.”

“Get out of my store.”

—

I step out into the pouring snow, the flakes blasting my face, my head spinning.

I glance down the street, see a cab approaching. When I raise my arm, it veers toward me, easing to a stop alongside the curb. Pulling open the rear passenger door, I hop in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Where to.

Great question.

“A hotel, please.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. Something within ten blocks. Something cheap. I want you to pick it.”

He looks back through the Plexiglas separating the front and backseats.

“You want me to pick it?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, I think he isn’t going to do it. Maybe it’s too weird a request. Maybe he’s going to order me out. But instead, he starts the meter running and pulls back out into traffic.

—

I stare through the window at the snow falling through headlights, taillights, streetlights, flashing lights.

My heart stomping inside my chest, my thoughts racing.

I need to calm down.

Approach this logically, rationally.

The cab pulls over in front of a seedy-looking hotel called the End o’ Days.

The cabbie glances back, asks, “This work for you?”

I pay the fare and head for the front office.

There’s a Bulls game on the radio and a heavy hotel clerk behind the desk eating Chinese food from a fleet of white cartons.

Brushing the snow off my shoulders, I check in under the name of my mother’s father—Jess McCrae.

I pay for a single night.

It leaves me with $14.76.

I head up to the fourth floor and lock myself inside the room behind the deadbolt and the chain.

It’s utterly without life.

A bed with a depressing floral-print comforter.

Formica table.

Dressers built of particleboard.

At least it’s warm.

I move to the curtains and peek outside.

It’s snowing hard enough that the streets are beginning to empty and the pavement is frosting over, showing the tire tracks of passing cars.

I undress and stow my last ampoule in the Gideon Bible in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

Then I jump in the shower.

I need to think.

—

I ride the elevator down to the first floor and use my keycard to access the business center.

I have an idea.

Bringing up the free email service I use in this world, I type in the first idea for a username that comes to mind.

My name spelled out in Pig Latin: asonjayessenday.

Not surprisingly, it’s already taken.

The password is obvious.

The one I’ve used for almost everything the last twenty years—the make, model, and year of my first car: jeepwrangler89.

I attempt to log in.

It works.

I find myself in a newly created email account whose inbox contains several introductory emails from the provider and one recent email from “Jason” that has already been opened.