The naked edge

15

A cold October wind breathed a premonition of winter. Especially after the warmth of New Orleans, it made Carl shiver. But as he retreated along the walkway next to the Chicago River, maintaining a disciplined, inconspicuous pace, appearing to enjoy the view of the water, he was determined not to go into a store and risk buying a jacket. After all, the photograph in the newspapers was likely to be on television as well. Word would have spread quickly that he'd been spotted in Chicago. People would pay attention to strangers.

His discomfort gave him a glimpse of the future: decreasing possibilities and increasing deprivations.

What happens when my money's gone? Do I start holding up liquor stores? Hell, I can't show my face to spend the money anyhow. Where am I going to sleep tonight? I can't risk going to a hotel, even a seedy one. It won't be long before the government offers a reward. Do I hide in an alley the way I did two nights ago? Do I hole up in the woods?

Play the game.

Hide and seek.

He passed a newspaper that someone had stuffed into a garbage bin. Making sure than no one was near him, he pulled out the paper and studied his photograph on the front page. Aaron, you son of a bitch, I should be getting laid on the Riviera right now.

In a fury, he read that Aaron and his wife had managed to post bail and been released. It gave him savage pleasure to learn that Global Protective Services was about to collapse. Only a fraction of what you deserve, you bastard. Aaron and his wife had been allowed to leave Louisiana and fly to New York to begin the process of dissolving the company.

"If he had been available to us, the mission would have been a success," the swarthy man had said before Carl blew him up.

Well, let's see about that, Carl thought.

Hide for the rest of my life?

Aaron, I'll prove to you how good I am.

On a bench ahead, a man slept next to a bicycle. The man had beard stubble and matted, dirty hair. He wore a ragged jacket and filthy jeans. Attached to the rear of the bicycle, a small cart contained plastic bags of what appeared to be even more ragged clothing. A cord led from the man's wrist to the bicycle, a burglar alarm.

Carl checked that no one was paying attention. He unclipped his knife from his pants pocket, thumbed the blade open, and sliced the cord. He wheeled the bike out of earshot (it had only one gear and didn't make the clicking sound of sports bikes). He stopped just long enough to pull a ragged blue shirt from a bag and pull it over the brown shirt he'd bought in New Orleans. Then he got on and bicycled away. Like a motorcyclist wearing goggles and a helmet, a ragged homeless man on a bicycle, towing his few meager possessions, was invisible.

He still had the newspaper from the waste bin. When he felt that it was safe to stop, he planned to study the personal ads and buy another used motorcycle. There was always the risk that he'd be recognized, but he would sense if that happened and make sure the man selling the motorcycle couldn't warn anyone. He didn't have enough cash to buy as good a bike as the Yamaha he'd abandoned in Mississippi, but then the bike didn't need to function long. His destination was only five hours away.