Hank put Buffy behind him when he drove away with her $3,700 life savings the next morning from the Pasadena Motel 6 in Grandma Harriett’s ’76 Plymouth Valiant. Thank God – it’d only been a rusted carburetor, and the mechanic at the Shell station didn’t detect any twitch in Hank’s facial expression, any uncontrolled flutter in his voice, or notice the bulging whites in Hank’s eyes. He kept his agitated nerves under control.
Thank God the motel had an empty meat refrigerator. In the dark Hank had managed to throw the bodies in there – and frozen, they wouldn’t smell. Nobody would notice until opening it for some other reason … would be days, even weeks, and Hank would be long gone by then.
He made his way north on I-210, then I-5, and passed Santa Clarita, then brushed by Bakersfield, and made his way north. San Francisco – he’d head up there. He could remain anonymous there among all the Haight hippies … even if his blond crew cut, Izods, and pressed jeans didn’t exactly fit in. He’d figure out a way to hide right out in the open.
He’d thought about going for Ohio, but no – too much evidence back at the Motel 6, too many people knew he came from Akron. Once they found the bodies, they’d be interviewing Mama and Pops – Hank felt a white-hot twinge in his heart at the thought of their expressions, when the F.B.I. told them he was wanted for questioning. And then he felt another twinge, as he realized, he could never go back to Akron.
He made his way westward through Livermore and Hayward, then north to Oakland, and across the Bay Bridge. There it was – the San Francisco he’d heard tell of. Foggy, gray, drizzly, cloudy, cold – not the City by the Bay of his dreams, all blue sky and Golden Gate. But he’d find a place to hide right here. He had $3,640 left – a chance at a second start.
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