What's in a Name? by Terry Odell

drive. Tomorrow would be even worse, he
knew. Everything always hurt worse the second day. After peeking in
the windows of a camera shop, a bicycle repair shop, and a used
bookstore, he wandered into the internet café where Kelli sat at a
terminal, clicking through sites, stopping every now and then to
key in information. She glanced up when he came in, but from the
way she immediately went back to the computer, he figured they
weren’t supposed to know each other.
    At the counter, Blake ordered a cup of
coffee, loaded it with cream and sugar, and took it to a small
table. From there he could watch her, even if he couldn’t tell what
she was doing.
    He’d finished half his coffee when she
got up and left without acknowledging his presence. When he heard
the truck door open, close, and the engine turn over, he abandoned
his coffee, nonchalantly making his way toward the truck, although
his painful, lumbering gait was anything but casual.
    Kelli glared at him when he’d hoisted
himself into the cab. “I thought you needed to lie down.”
    “ I thought maybe
walking around would help. Everything gets tight when I sit.” He
waited. When she didn’t say anything, he pressed. “Are you going to
tell me what that was about?”
    “ Later. Now I’m going
to see if the motel down the road has a room, assuming you still
want to lie down.”
    He stared at her face, pale and drawn
and her red-rimmed eyes. “I do.”
    Within five minutes, she’d pulled into
another fleabag motel, telling him to stay in the truck. When she
returned, she climbed in and started the engine.
    “ No rooms?” he
asked.
    “ In back. I’ll drive
around.”
    Kelli parked in front of unit
twenty-six and got her gym bag and backpack from behind the seat.
He let her go inside, waited two full minutes, then followed. He
saw the two double beds, standard motel issue, saw Kelli glance
from one bed to the other. For a fleeting moment, she was the
frightened, insecure woman he’d met when he’d arrived at Camp
Getaway. He wanted to tell her everything would be fine. Hell, he
wanted to tell himself everything would be fine.
    Then she straightened and went back to
the truck, returning with the shopping bags he’d seen behind the
seat. She plopped them on the sagging easy chair in the corner,
then disappeared into the bathroom with her gym bag. He heard the
shower running.
    “ What were you doing
at the internet cafe?” he asked when she came out, wearing sweats
and towel-drying her hair.
    “ I made a plane
reservation to Atlanta and booked a room at the Marriott for three
nights.”
    “ Plane reservations
and hotel rooms? After the lecture on not doing anything that can
be traced?”
    She sank to the edge of one of the beds
and lowered her head into her hands. He wasn’t going to get The
Shake this time. He waited, standing above her.
    Her words replayed themselves. Plane
reservation and hotel room. Singular. His heart lurched into his
throat and he didn’t know why. Hell, if she wanted to go her own
way, so much the better. He would tell Hollingsworth she wasn’t
Casey Wallace and be done with it. “I see. Well, thanks for
patching me up. I should be fine on my own by tomorrow.”
    She looked up at him, totally confused.
“What? I told you, until I figure this out, I’m not letting you out
of my sight.”
    “ So we’re both going
to Atlanta? When?”
    “ Jesus H. Christ,
Windsor, use what brain cells you have left. I made the
reservations, yes. But we’re sure as hell not going where someone
thinks we’re going. This way, if they’re tracing me, they’ll be
looking in Atlanta. We’re going to keep driving.”
    She rummaged in one of the bags and
pulled out four cell phones. “Prepaid. Virtually disposable. Almost
impossible to trace.”
    “ Oh.” His face flushed
hot. “Even without a concussion, I think I’m out of my league. Were
you a spy in another life?”
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Another life, Blake had said.