Emily Locke 01 - Final Approach

musty scent of old moisture made me want to throw up.
    Jeannie whimpered. “Eww! I scooped up something wet and chunky!”
    “Get
in
.” I hoped she’d do it fast.
    Soon, only the rhythmic sound of dryers filled the room. I took shallow breaths, worried the rise and fall of my chest might move the mound of linens covering me.
    A moment later, the Laundromat door squeaked. It hesitated in the open position. I imagined the agent surveying the washers and dryers, maybe even the laundry hampers. I held my breath. The door squeaked closed.
    I exhaled in relief. Unsure how long to wait, I decided to count to sixty. I’d only gotten to two when the door swung open again.
    “Oh!” A woman said. “You startled me.”
    Holy Hell, I thought, he’s still in the room. I pictured Jeannie balled up in her neighboring chamber of sweat and vomit and wondered how she was doing.
    “Brent Keller,” the agent said. “Looking for a missing patient.”
    In my mind, I could see the badge flashing.
    “Here’s her picture,” Keller said. “Seen her?”
    There was a pause.
    “Sorry,” she said. “‘Scuse me, please. Watch your toes.”
    Castors rolled over the linoleum. The wheels droned louder until a soft-sided hamper ploughed into my hiding spot and sandwiched me between itself and Jeannie’s basket. A dryer buzzed.
    The next time I thought the room was clear, I upped the count to two hundred.
    That time, I only made it to thirty-nine. Jeannie extricated herself first and cursed up such a storm I worried she’d be overheard. I climbed out too and tried to think of a safe exit strategy. I searched carts and dryers and found a set of scrubs for each of us. We pulled them over our clothes.
    Jeannie said Keller, wherever he was, would expect us to go downstairs, so we should go up. We went to a higher floor and found a restroom where we could—in Jeannie’s words—“clean off this putrid funk.” We crossed the building and made our way downstairs. The hospital’s vastness worked for us. Eventually, its cavernous walls spit us out on the wrong side of the block, but a passing intern directed us back to our garage.
    When I checked my phone, I’d missed four calls from Richard.
    “You drive,” I told Jeannie. “I need to call him.”
    “Call him?” she said. “An hour ago, you told me to keep him in the dark.”
    “An hour ago, I wasn’t a fugitive from the law.”
    We climbed into the car and closed its doors. Jeannie backed out of the parking space. She braked in the aisle and looked at me. “What happened to ‘it’ll ruin his career’?”
    My head fell back onto the headrest. I didn’t know what to do. Jeannie let the car coast down the ramp toward the garage’s exit.
    “If it weren’t for you and Vince, I’d be in custody,” I said.
    She smiled. “Good thing for you, we kick ass.”
    I shook my head. “That was luck. I can’t skirt the FBI forever. I’ll be surprised to make it another hour.”
    She paid the attendant and the gate arm rose. Sunlight flooding in from the street was blinding.
    “Which way do I turn?” she asked.
    “I don’t care,” I said. “I need to find a locker.”
    She took a right out of the garage and drove where traffic pushed her.
    “Are you suggesting Richard can help you evade the FBI until you get Annette?”
    “I don’t think he’d do that. But he’d probably help explain why I ran.”
    “You can do that yourself.”
    “What if they trace my call and come for me before I get her? If Richard explained to Clement, maybe the FBI would help me.”
    “You’ve lost your mind.”
    No, I was an amateur—and way over my head. In my panic, I’d evaded any potential backup. Now I could only hope the outcome would be the best for Annette and Casey.
    We passed the Museum of Natural Science and the Museum of Fine Arts. Jeannie rounded a corner and we stopped an intersection with the Health Museum on one side and the Children’s Museum on another.
    At the crosswalk, mothers and youngsters held hands and checked both ways before crossing to the brightly colored building. Some pushed strollers, others pulled wagons. One mom with a baby on her hip bent to recover a dropped bottle.
    “Park the car,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Find a meter and park. Look at all those kids. All their gear.” I felt a pang, remembering what it was like to haul a stroller and diaper bag everywhere I went. “They’ve got to have lockers in there.”
    For a quarter, I rented a small,