Boston Father Ian had been walking cold and tired all night in a direction he could not account for, because he didn’t know his way around Boston. An indescribable instinct that he’d honed the past month said,
this way, that way. He followed it faithfully. He knew, though the route may have been different, the direction the creature was taking was the same.
Now, with an early-morning sun splashing a harsh light onto America, the priest needed to stay awake, alert, no matter what his body was telling him. If he slept, he feared the world that he knew and loved, despite its short-comings, would cease to exist before he awakened. Gone. Replaced with one infinitely more corrupt and unhallowed than the present one could ever manage to sink. Given up to a power that was as purely evil as a fresh coat of snow in the arctic was purely white. And it would all be his fault.
He finally resorted to do an act against his tenets, both religiously and personally, though actions such as these weren’t new to him. Nearly two days removed from sleep, he conspired to check cars in a twenty-four hour truck stop to see if they were unlocked, and if so, if they harbored any loose change with which to buy some well-needed coffee and possibly a candy bar for a sugar-boost.
The Travel Mart was a multi-business establishment all housed under the roof of a single, spacious building: one part restaurant, one part activity center for traveling children and bored parents or truckers, one part information center, one part calling center, and one part shower and rest area. It was flanked by I-95 to its north and the last in a long line of car dealerships to its south. The parking lot took up the east portion of the property and was at near capacity of both cars and big rigs. They were arranged in such a way that some of the tractor-trailers would shield him from the view of the building where the morning wayfarers were no doubt taking part in breakfast and other travel-tasks. The south portion was multiple gas and diesel islands. Several eighteen-wheelers were in line to fill their tanks at the diesel pumps, while a few cars took their turns at the gasoline pumps.
He reconnoitered the lot for a time from across the road as he weighed his options.
His mouth seemed to be in a constant yawn, and his eyes felt gritty as if someone had dumped a bucket full of sand in them. He rubbed away the weariness from his face as best he could and tried to shake some energy into his tired body. He realized that he probably looked silly convulsing like that, but nobody seemed to notice him.
The traffic was getting heavy in the midst of the morning rush. A line was beginning to form to get onto the on-ramp to the interstate highway that gave the truck stop its patrons. Soon there would be a line back to the parking lot, where any number of commuters would be able to see his delinquency.
He felt uncomfortable, but if he didn’t do it now, he’d miss the chance. He waited for the next break in the traffic and crossed the road.
He walked past the cars closest to the street into the interior of the lot where the big rigs would afford him the best concealment.
He searched the maze of steel and glass and rubber for the oldest, most unlikely cars to have security systems to do his misdeed.
The first was a four-door, dark-gray, eighties-model Chevy Celebrity. He surveyed the lot warily as he pulled up gently on the driver’s side door latch. Locked. The other side was locked as well.
In a strange sort of way he felt relieved. Considering the consequences of the dire pursuit he was on, stealing someone’s pocket change should not have made him feel the least bit guilty, but it did. This was nothing, he thought, compared to what he’d done while serving as pastor of his parish in Glutter Den. That singular event had sent his life falling like a row of dominoes to Oban to contemplate his future in the priesthood, to the excavation of the catacombs in search of a spark to rekindle his diminishing faith, and culminating now with the search for the evil he fortuitously unloosed from its earthen prison under the monastery. Half-heartedly he convinced himself that this was no worse than a police officer breaking the speed limit while chasing a fugitive of justice. Nonetheless, the thought of taking something that was not his was still a bit disconcerting.
He moved in and out of the parking spaces to the next car targeted for inspection. The Ford Escort station wagon was also locked.
Ian now felt not only uncomfortable, but apprehensive. The few minutes spent testing door locks had seemed like an eternity. Though the morning was cool and damp, he began to perspire. Each step across the pavement as he searched out the next object of his hunt, to him, echoed as loud as an amplified drum beat for all to hear. Surely he was going to get caught, and that would not be good. He was in the country illegally, had no visa or passport, there would be no record on any craft—plane or ship—of Father Ian McConnell.
He began to question his decision to look for unlocked cars. He couldn’t risk apprehension, detention and deportation no matter how desperate he was to stay awake. When deported, he could most certainly find another clandestine way back into the country again, but it would take time, and that was a ware in short supply. Time was ticking away disturbingly fast for—.
His negative thinking abruptly halted. He found a car. The rear door of a Toyota Tercel was unlocked.
He peered around his surroundings. No one was in the parking lot, and the stream of cars along the avenue, though increasing in number, were traveling slowly but steadily to their destination like a giant metal python searching out its next meal.
He wasn’t noticed—yet.
Quickly, Ian opened the door and slipped inside. From the back seat, he leaned forward between the tan bucket seats and looked around. The car smelled like vanilla and was spotless—no crumbs, no dirt, no old candy bar wrappers, not even a single smudge on any of the glass surfaces. He checked under the seats, in the door compartments, under the visors, still nothing. Ian then reached out to the glove compartment and unlatched it. Miscellaneous papers, insurance card, registration, nothing of any significance, nothing he could eat or take. Then something caught his eye on the console. The ashtray compartment was partially opened. Even the cleanest of cars belonging to smokers still had that smell that no perfume can dispel. He sniffed. Not even a faint trace of tobacco. He quickly opened it. Bingo! A few dollar bills and a slew of dimes and quarters and nickels were tucked within the confines of the ashtray.
Without warning, voices were abruptly heard outside the car, coming out of nowhere.
Ian withdrew his hand and fell to the floor between the front and back seats. It was impossible for him to conceal himself. He was too large a man to cloak himself in such a diminutive space.
The voices, two—male and female—were getting closer, discussing which routes to take to their destination. One was arguing and the other one laughing. Ian heard them as clearly as if he was partaking in the debate. Their strides became louder, and his mouth became as dry as cotton. His heart fluttered nervously as the couple headed right towards the Toyota. He heard keys jingling together; he must have been in their car. Closer, closer. A door opened.
Damn, damn, damn! All this for a lousy cup of coffee.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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