The Travelers

            When Dallas Stoudenmire awoke to the sound of his phone ringing, he felt like he'd only been asleep for a few minutes at best. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary to get a call from the marshal's office in the middle of the night, but it had been days since he'd had a quality night of rest. He groaned as he fought with his tired body to pull on the chain attached to his lamp.

            He stared at the phone in hesitation before he finally brought himself to lift it off the receiver.

            “Hello. . . ” His voice was still hoarse from his recent sleep.

            “Dallas, sorry to call you so late. It's about MacQuoid. We've finally got the creep cornered in Denver City. Need you to get on a plane as soon as possible.”

            “You want me to go to Colorado?”

            “No, its in Texas. Its a small piece of shit town somewhere between Lubbock and Midland.”

            “Godammit. When's the flight?”

            “Its leaves in two hours. Get yourself cleaned up and the chief will meet you once the plane lands in Midland. From there, its a four hour drive to Denver City. MacQuoid was last spotted by the local police while he was taking his car in for repairs. A look at his credit cards confirmed it was him. They're waiting for us to make the move to detain him.”

            “You know how much I hate flying late at night. It always does something horrid to my gut.”

            “Dallas, if you can't handle the hours we can always transfer you out of the fugitive division. You want me to submit a request for you to work in courtroom security?”

            “You know damn well I don't want that.”

            “Then get your ass cleaned up and get to the airport. Times-a-tickin, Dallas.”

            The dispatcher hung up without another word. Dallas laid there for a minute staring at the ceiling as he pondered another life where he had bosses that would actually let him sleep or have a drink without the fear of getting a call like this at night. Then he remembered the thrill of catching a fugitive. It was the most difficult prey to hunt on the planet. No other life could replace this hunt.

            The marshals had been tracking Dennis MacQuoid for over three months since he had escaped the Houston PD. He was easily the most debased pedophile Dallas Stoudenmire had heard of in his five years as a marshal. Possibly in the whole history of Texas.  He was employed as a Christian teacher in a small private school and also worked as a freelance photographer. Over the course of ten years, he had racked up seventy-one counts of serious sexual assaults against children, ten of which were boys in Haiti he took advantage of while his church was offering humanitarian aid.

            As Dallas remembered the images he had seen in MacQouid's case file, his anxiety for the flight started to subside. He knew his stomach ache was inevitable after a flight this late, but it was a small price to pay for the capture of this creep. He only hoped his guts would stop bubbling by the time they made their move.

            The flight out of DFW was as routine as any other. By two thirty in the morning, everything except the latest of passengers had gone to sleep. Dallas flew on the type of small jet plane routinely used by federal agencies. The only other passenger was another man with a conservative haircut that reminded Dallas of his days in the army. The man slept throughout the short flight, but Dallas could not keep his mind at ease.

            The earth below him changed from a nighttime landscape of lush forests, farmland, and lakes into a golden morning display of the arid American West.

            Dallas's mind was rapt in thought about the horrors he had witnessed in the fugitive's case file. Tiny removed body parts littered on the floors of basements. Tiny fingers, toes, and other unspeakable parts of the anatomy were stripped away from his victims as McQouid had his twisted ways with them. Many of them survived, all most all them in fact. MacQouid would release his victims into the world disfigured and maimed, but unable to speak of the atrocities that had happened to them. Most of the time they would be deaf, mute, and blind from the injuries they suffered or mental abuse. Psychological experts had tried everything they could, but little details were ever gained from McQouid's many young victims.

            The main revelation that led to McQouid's final capture was when his confidence finally caught up to him, as is the case with so many serial deviants. While working a typical wedding job as a freelance photographer, a drunk groomsman took one of McQouid's cameras from his bag in order to take some photos of his own. After the high-spirited man had his fun, he looked through the camera to review the photos he had taken. Past the few out of focus shots with people dancing and drinking tequila, he found images of horrors that he would never forget. The police were called immediately and McQouid's home was raided by local police. Inside they found dozens of hard drives containing the vast library of debased photography McQouid had been collecting over the years. In the basement of the house, they found two disfigured boys. One aged seven, the other thirteen.

            As Dallas stepped off the plane into the blazing West Texas sun, his stomach began to boil. Dallas didn't know whether it was the lack of sleep, his diet, or nerves, but every time he took a late night flight it made him feel like he had stomach cancer. The wrenching pain in his gut was worse this time though. This case was different. Dallas knew if he didn't catch up to McQouid, it wouldn't just put his job in jeopardy. How many innocent children were at stake?

            McQouid's escape from the police defies logical explanation. Dallas had seen plenty of negligence in his time in the army, but nothing like what he had seen from the Houston PD. According to the official report, McQouid was arrested at the wedding within ten minutes of the police being called. At some point between the wedding and the police station, McQouid was able to escape his handcuffs and gouge out the eyes of the arresting officer. After leaving the scene on foot, he stopped a passing truck and killed the driver with the police officer's weapon. Denver City was the first sighting of McQouid since that night three months ago.

            Denver got to the regional office in Midland at seven in the morning. The only familiar faces were those of the secretaries at the front office. As usual, the fugitive division was in the field tracking prey for their hunt. The rest of the building was occupied by marshals who served in the many other divisions of the agency, from witness protection to executive protection. These were all men who worked bankers hours, typically eight to five jobs with healthy family life. The fugitive division worked twenty four hours a day, always on call for a possible capture.

            Denver asked the secretaries when chief would be in.

            “Ohh, Chief is on his way back from Washington. He had a flight delayed and should be in by the end of the day.” The blonde woman stated politely.

            “The end of the day!? I just got off a red eye to catch the worst fugitive this office has ever seen! Can't you give me the case file so I can get moving?”

            “Denver, you will have to wait until Dougal is back. We don't have any access to his office, as you should know. I'm sure he will give you the details as soon as he can.”

            “Jesus Christ. I guess I'll just wait like a good deputy then.”

            Denver was defeated once again by the bureaucracy of the federal government. He expected better after leaving the army, especially from the US Marshals, but he was somehow consistently surprised at the lack of competency in the people he worked with. He unsuccessfully tried to catch some sleep while he waited for the chief of the station to get back from the airport. This red eye flight that had ruined his circadian rhythm and set his stomach on fire was pointless, but the effects wouldn't go away until McQouid was finished with.

            When the secretary told Denver of his arrival, Chief Dougal was drinking coffee out of a disposable cup in the parking lot. He was leaning against a Lincoln sedan reflecting the evening sun off of its polished black paint.

            “Denver! The rest of the team is already on the way to Denver City. I suggest you saddle up and start moving.  Here's the details.” He handed over a stuffed manila folder and the key to the Lincoln.

            “Thanks Chief. How long is the drive?”

            “Its a solid four hours. Should put you there around 1 A.M. if you make decent time.”

            “Roger that. Who's gonna take point on this one?”

            “I want you to Dallas. Think you're up to it?”

            “On a guy as bad as this chief?”

            As the chief nodded, Dallas could see a reflection of his surprised face in his sunglasses.

            “I'll get him. It's what we signed up for.”

            When Dallas started the engine of the Lincoln, his stomach growled in anger under his seat belt. It had been over two days since Dallas had slept for more than an hour straight. The inside of the black sedan was boiling under the Texas sun and the leather steering wheel was painful to the touch. The inside of the car smelled like hot cigarettes even with the windows rolled down. As Dallas drove West towards the sunset, he read through the documents chief had given him.

            Inside the manila folder were details of McQouid's suspected location and a psychological profile. The experts described possible responses in an attempt to capture him, including an account of the Houston officer who was blinded and disarmed in his escape. There would likely be a standoff when McQouid encountered law enforcement. That was if they could track him down. Three months was a long time to be under investigation from the marshals, especially for a fugitive as notorious as this. Wherever McQouid had found a place to hide, it was somewhere deep and far away. Somewhere dark where nobody would think to look.

            Dallas had been driving for three and a half hours on country highways through the desert and the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon. Endless stretches of unused land were pockmarked by tiny vestiges of middle America. One stoplight towns built entirely around gas stations. A brightly lit truck stop sitting in the middle of the black desert like a base on the moon.

            Dallas was struggling to keep his eyes open as he drove alone through the empty landscape. He was almost down to his last cigarette and he knew if he would likely fall asleep at the wheel if he continued on. Not to mention, his stomach was still boiling. Dallas feared what drinking coffee might do to his nervous gut, but he needed something to keep moving. McQouid was still out there and it wouldn't take long for him to realize that the police were on his trail.

            The headlights of the Lincoln and the glowing digits on the dashboard were the only thing visible as Dallas drove into the endless darkness that lay front of him. As his eyelids began to close, his grip on the steering wheel loosened. He awoke to the sound of a blaring horn from an oncoming truck. He jerked the steering wheel to the right and avoided the collision, his heart smashing though his chest. He would have to stop to get some coffee, no matter what it would do to his boiling gut. He was already running late, but that didn't matter if he died in the process of getting there.

            He found a cafe ten miles from where he had almost wrecked the Lincoln. All he needed to do was drink a cup of coffee, confront the demon in his gut, and get back on the road to find McQouid as soon as he possibly could.

            When they pulled up to the cafe it was one twenty in the morning. There were three people left on the bus. Noah had been wearing the same clothes for five days now. He was hoping they'd have enough cash for a motel soon. Marlene still had the .45 she stole from her father tucked into her trousers. Noah had begged her to let him take it, but she insisted on keeping it close. Ever since they spent their last dollar, she had been caressing the butt of that pistol waiting for the right time to use it.

            As they walked off the bus, the sound of wind could be heard in the power lines that stretched across the desert. The air brake of the bus coughed and startled Noah before it rolled away into the night. They were left standing there alone. The fluorescent bulbs of the cafe shot a blue artificial light onto the street, illuminating them like actors on a stage.

            As they walked into the diner, they were greeted by a waitress with greasy hair and a tattoo of a badly done portrait of a baby. “Rest in Peace” was scrawled above it. Sitting at the counter was an old man with a ten-gallon hat and a pair of suspenders stretched across his wide middle. He was filling out a crossword puzzle. The cook was a black man in his twenties who was playing hip-hop on headphones to drown out the Hank Williams that was playing on the jukebox.

            Noah and Marlene sat at a booth in the corner of the cafe. They both ordered coffee and Marlene ordered a “Grand Slam” breakfast. Between the two of them, they had two dollars and eighty cents. Marlene had spent the last of their money on her leather jacket before buying the bus tickets.

            “You know we don't have enough money for that!” Noah said under his breath. He looked at Marlene with a look of scared hesitation that she had become accustomed to by now.

            Marlene smiled back with a fake look of politeness. “Well . . . not yet we don't.”

            Noah was scared what Marlene had up her sleeve. She wasn't stupid enough to rob a place like this, but he knew she was up to no good. Marlene had been giving that fake smile for so long she had crafted it into a perfect facade.

            Marlene got up from their booth and maneuvered her way next to the old man in the cowboy hat sitting at the counter. Her mascaraed eyes scanned over the folded newspaper held by the old man.

            “It's hapless.”

            “Sorry dear?”

            “Number five across. A seven letter word for unlucky.”

            “Hapless?”

            “Yes.” She winked.

            “Well, gahtdamn! You're right! You're a smart little girl aren't ya?”

            She faked a laugh. “Well, not too smart. You see, me and my friend over there are in a little bit of a pickle.” She played with her hands and looked down at her shoes.

            “What's wrong?”

            “We were on our way out to Austin to visit some friends, and well, I think I may have forgot to bring my daddy's credit card along for the trip.”

            “Oh darling, that sure does sound 'hapless'”

            She faked another laugh.

            “How bout this” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an overstuffed wallet. “Here's fifty dollars. That should be enough to get you to Austin and leave you a bit left over for some dinner.” He smiled under his big mustache as Marlene placed the bills into her bra. His eyes followed her rear as she strutted back to the booth where Noah was still patiently waiting.

            “Quit smiling. I heard every word of that, you devil. You know fifty dollars won't be enough to get us to LA.” Noah startled when the tattooed waitress came back with the meal. The grease of the bacon and eggs had formed an elixir that made Noah's mouth water with anticipation.

            Marlene just gave that familiar grin and winked as she said “Don't worry Noah. I have a plan.”

            Marlene ate her food and let Noah have a couple strips of the floppy bacon. As they dined, the man in the cowboy hat gave several subjective glances at Marlene and she returned a wink every time. When he payed his bill and left the cafe, she followed him out to his double-wide truck that was parked outside. From where Noah was sitting, they looked like actors in a silent movie lit by blue light.

            “Howdy again, Buttercup”

            “Howdy . . .” Marlene faked shyness.

            “Listen, dear, my wife passe. . .”

            She caught his mustache in her lips and pressed her body against his wide middle, being careful not to let him feel the .45 hidden in her jeans. She whispered ,“Lets take your truck out back cowboy, my friend can wait.”

            The man nervously unlocked the truck and opened the door for Marlene. She got inside and could see a revolver under the drivers seat. As they drove out of light cast by the inside of the diner she unbuttoned her blouse and bent over the center console and began to undo his fly.

            Inside the diner, Noah was wishing he hadn't drank so much coffee. He went to use the restroom, but a man cried out “Just a minute!” before the sound of diarrhea echoed under the door.

How long was this guy gonna be in there? He hadn't seen him leave the restroom since they got off the bus. Hopefully whatever he ate wasn't from here.

            Noah startled as the man came through the bathroom door followed by the smell of sewage. Only it wasn't just a man. Noah's eyes were glued to the badge and the holster worn under the man's sport jacket. He looked like a marshal. As the man walked away, he turned around and caught a glimpse of Noah's surprise before he returned to his seat. Noah locked himself inside the restroom and his heart felt like it might come out of his chest it was beating so hard.

            Just as his urine hit the water in the bowl a gunshot rang from outside. Noah startled again, adding to the yellow puddle that already surrounded the toilet. He pinched himself on his zipper, and more piss came out onto his jeans. He paused for a moment before opening the restroom door, but he couldn't leave Marlene out there alone.

            When Noah came back out into the dining room, everyone was hiding behind booths and chairs except for Dallas, who was standing by the front door with his pistol at a high ready. He yelled for Noah to get down and his eyes scanned out the windows into the night.

            From behind the cafe, tires squealed. An engine roared around the side before two bright headlights illuminated the front door. The engine roared again and the headlights came closer.

            Dallas yelled “FUUCK!” as he unloaded his pistol through the glass of the front door into the windshield of the truck. By the seventh or eighth shot, the truck had completely smashed through the glass facade of the cafe, crushing him under the weight of its front tires. Blood came out of his mouth as a radio on his hip muttered unintelligible police chatter.

            Hank Williams was still playing on the jukebox as the black cook let out a “Dayyumm!” from behind the counter. He rushed towards a phone mounted on the wall and furiously dialed for the police. The tattooed waitress was on the floor crying, covered in glass.

            The passenger door of the truck was completely inside of the cafe. Noah climbed over a booth and opened it up to see that Marlene had been shot in the face. He could see her brains covering the head rest. She was smiling. It was a real smile, though, not the fake one she had practiced all her life.

            Noah stepped back out of the truck and grabbed the pistol from the dead marshal. He stood over the tattooed waitress and began to cry as he yelled “Give me your keys!”

            “Please!” She cried in shock.

            “Y-y-y your keys now, lady!” He stuttered as tears began to form.

            She handed him her key chain that was loaded with stuffed do-dads with a shaking fearful hand. She hid her bloodied face under her hands and her cries of pain pierced through her fingers as she tried to hide the world from her eyes.

            He clenched it tightly as he climbed through the wreckage into the parking lot. The keys unlocked a rusty Camry that was sitting at the edge of the cafe's blue light. He turned the key and the engine  sputtered. He cursed at the old car, “Chinese piece of shit!” but it would not start. He began to panic and smash at the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn. He cried “Please god! Start this fucking thing!”. God must have heard him, because the engine sputtered to life and the dashboard and headlights came alight. He squealed his way out of the lonely parking lot and into the desert. On the radio, Johnny Cash sang the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails for him as he drove West and thought of Marlene and his future.

What have I become

My sweetest friend?

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end

            The low gas indicator had been on for twenty minutes and Noah was looking through his tear-stained eyes for a place to stop. He didn't have any cash to fill the tank, but sleeping out in the desert would get him caught by the police faster than anything else. He drove aimlessly on side roads avoiding the Texas Highway Patrol,  searching for somewhere isolated to stop. By the time he reached Denver City, the car was running on fumes. He abandoned the car on the outskirts of the dusty town and searched for a  place to sleep the night off.

            As he walked through the lonely streets of the dark town, he thought of Marlene and everything that had happened in his life that had led him to this point. As a foster child, he was never meant for a life of success, but Marlene was the main reason he followed the path that had brought him here. Marlene had always talked about how horrible her dad was, but deep down in his heart Noah was still jealous that she had a father at all. When they started their run towards L.A., Noah felt bad for Marlene's father even if he was an abusive son of a bitch. Marlene never hid the fact that she hated her father and Noah couldn't imagine how the man would feel when he heard his daughter had been killed.

            After an hour or so of searching for a place to rest, Noah finally found an unlocked door at an old small warehouse and fell asleep on top of some plastic packing material.

            He awoke to the sound of a camera shutter and a bright flash of white light.

            “What the fuck are you doing?!” Noah muttered in a half-sleep.

            “Don't worry, you look beautiful.” A voice said behind the flashing camera.

            “Stop it! Why are you taking pictures!” Noah sat up from his makeshift bed and felt the bulge of the marshal's pistol in his waist as his body shifted.

            “Don't worry, boy. It's just for art. I'm a photographer you see.”

            “Well I'm not a model, asshole.”

            “You could be with a body like that.”

            “W-w-what?” Noah knew something was off, and it made him nervous.

            “Its too dark in here, do you want to go somewhere where there is better light?”

            “I'm not going anywhere with you. Get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”

            “Ohh. I see. You want to call the police on me?” The man said between angry teeth.

            Noah could see the shift in the man's attitude when he mentioned the police. His nerves were on fire as he reached into his waistband to grip the pistol. When he brought it to bear his grip was weak and he almost dropped the gun as his finger searched for the trigger. The man dropped his camera and it shattered on the hard floor of the warehouse. He lunged after Noah and gripped the barrel of the marshal's pistol, trying to wrench it out of Noah's hands.

            They wrestled for the pistol, each of them using every ounce of strength they had in their body. The gun fell to the floor and BANG! A shot rang out and a yellow flash filled the dark warehouse. Noah fell to the ground as a shot of pain took over his right leg. The photographer grabbed the pistol off of the cement and started dragging Noah towards the huge doors that led outside. Noah used his arms to try to grab at anything he could as the man dragged him further across the parking lot towards a rusty van. His fingernails leaving trails in the asphalt has he begged the man for his life.

            When the man lifted him into the back of the van, he smacked Noah upside the head with the marshal's pistol, knocking him unconscious into a world of blackness.

            Noah awoke to the smell of blood. His hands were bound to the low ceiling of the basement and he had been stripped nude. There were no windows to tell the time of day. Noah knew that he was in Hell. Was it the things that he had done with Marlene that brought him to this place, or just dumb luck?

It didn't matter to Noah. He had to get out of here somehow.

             McQouid came down the stairs with a camera mounted on a tripod. He was just as naked as Noah, except for the leather bandoleer that held a collection of knives along with the marshal's pistol on his chest. He set down the camera and walked closer to Noah, the boy struggled against the restraints and could feel that the ropes that held him were not as strong as he first thought.

            In his blood lust, McQouid didn't notice Noah's wrists loosening from his restraints. He was enraptured by the image of the nude boy as he decided which of his knives to start with first.

            Noah could see that the man was distracted, but his arms felt numb from being tied to the ceiling for so long. He knew he only had one chance to get out of here alive, and this was it. His entire life, Noah had been nervous. At this moment, seeing the butt of the pistol on the man's chest, he felt more confident than he had his entire life.

            In one swift movement, Noah slipped his right hand out of his restraints and snatched the pistol from underneath McQouid's hungry eyes. He kicked the chest of the naked man with both of his feet and set him towards the floor.

             McQouid cried “Noo!” and put his hands in the air as Noah blasted him to oblivion with several rounds from marshals pistol. Crimson blood spattered both of their nude bodies. Noah's ears were already ringing when he shot the pistol at the restraints that still held his left hand to the ceiling.

            Noah walked upstairs, still nude except for the bit of rope that trailed off his wrists. The house was completely devoid of decorations except for a few Christian symbols nailed to the walls. In the kitchen, Noah dialed 911 before stealing some clothes and the keys to McQouid's rusty van.

            Noah tuned the radio and found Johnny Cash singing the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails once again as he headed to California in search of a new beginning.

If I could start again

A million miles away

I will keep myself

I would find a way