Missouri

Doubt

Constantina drove south, following the tracker. To her surprise, it worked. Mostly. When she arrived in St. Louis ten hours later her burner phone went dead, only to restart moments later. She parked as near as possible to the last known location. A rundown motel south of the city, surrounded by rundown apartments, mechanic shops and empty parking lots.

She needed sleep and food that didn’t come out of plastic containers, served by pimply- faced, monosyllabic teenagers, barely capable of adding one and one. Didn’t think I’d have to drive straight through. She glanced at the motel, shook her head and pulled up local hotels on her Praeda phone. She found a more decent looking motel with a small restaurant five miles further south.

            Thirty minutes later, she took off her fast-food smelling clothes and, after another quick glance at the tracker, reassuring her that Mark was still at the same location, she took a cold shower.

            Her phone alarm woke her eight hours later. It was six a. m. She took a minute, laid her arm across her eyes and sighed. I have the right to call off this hunt. She sighed, rolled over and glanced at the tracker. Shit. She threw off the blanket, grabbed a fresh pair of jeans, bra, underwear and shirt and glanced again at the tracker. Sometime during the night, Mark had taken off again. He was halfway to New Orleans. How far does this tech reach? A hundred miles? More? Less? She suddenly realized she didn’t know.

            She hurried through the checkout, stopped by the restaurant for breakfast and coffee, to go.