As Michael slowed to the stop sign, a dark black smoke caught his attention. Four police cruisers were parked in front of Mimsy's house, but the house did not appear to be on fire. More sirens echoed on their way in the distance. It seemed that the blaze was behind her house or possibly, in one of her back rooms.
Michael sat at a dead stop captivated by the scene playing out in front of him. The situation should have snapped him to attention, but he sat transfixed as if he was watching a movie. He felt apart from the site as an eerie paralysis washed over him. Would these terrible occurrences ever stop?
His dazed state kept him from noticing the individual climbing the fence to the right of his car. The man dropped and sprinted straight towards him. Michael finally snapped to attention as the passenger door swung open. Gary jumped into the seat and slammed the door closed behind him. "Drive!" Gary yelled. He slapped Michael's leg. "Drive!" he yelled again.
Michael's face was flushed as he looked at Gary for the first time without a mask. Gary's right cheek was covered with a long extended burn that reached from the left edge of his chin to the top of his cheekbone. Sun-tanned wrinkles burned into his face, making it hard to tell his age. Gary was not at all the same person Christine had shown him in the picture.
Michael tried to speak, but all he muttered was "Mimsy," and began to turn onto the street. Gary quickly shot his arms across the car and pushed the wheel straight. "Mimsy's fine, they're here for you!" he said harshly. To avoid crashing, Michael steered straight and continued past Mimsy's street.
"There's a fire," Michael said.
"It's not her house. Now listen. In Alaska," Gary replied, "Your picture was taken," Gary bluffed. "They're here for you. They believe you killed all those people. They think you killed the policeman. The only chance you have is me."
Michael didn't respond. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't upset. He was numbed. As they continued to slowly drive, Michael took a glance down the street behind Mimsy’s to see a firetruck parked on the side of the rode, lights flashing.
"See, not Mimsy. Just a coincidence. It's ok. I went to her house and they said they were looking for you," Gary broke the silence, "I've got you. Here take this." Gary handed another flip phone. "My number's in there. We're together, but just in case we have to split up. I'm here for you."
Michael hesitantly took the phone and slid it in his pocket.
"Pull over." Gary pointed towards a white van. Michael obediently pulled to the side of the vehicle. "I'll be five minutes. Lay your seat back a bit so the police can’t see you." Gary almost laughed as Michael obediently lowered his seat. It was a sad sight but humorous. The guy had been through a rough week. He didn't have any fight left in him.
Gary hurried to the rear of the van and swung the doors open to the windowless trunk. There was a four-gallon jug of gasoline stowed for emergencies such as this. He unscrewed the lid and carefully poured the fluid throughout the trunk, stepping loudly on the various fast-food wrappers he'd accumulated over the week. One gallon after another, he carefully made sure the entire interior was damp. Once he was fully satisfied, he crawled over the front onto the driver's seat, hopped to the street, and pulled the lighter from his pocket.
He looked down the street, confused. Then turned the other way to be confused again. He shoved the lighter back into his pocket and climbed onto the gasoline-soaked seat. Michael had driven off.