Free Spoiled Rotten by Mary Jackman

turned a yellowish pus-grey.
    He almost begged me, “Would you like me to go back to my place and get you a new bandage?”
    I shook my head and smiled, “Forget about it, Marty. Do you know where Daniel is or not?”
    â€œI know where he is, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.”
    I raced home, blew the dust off a canvas travel bag kept in the back of my bedroom closet and packed. A raincoat, a pair of black jeans that made my legs look six feet long, two T-shirts, underwear, socks, and a hooded sweat shirt were all stuffed into the bag. I’d be gone only a day or two, but better safe than sorry. I dropped a few toiletries in a side compartment, kept on the slacks I was wearing, smelled my armpits, and pulled on my long, black leather boots. There were enough points logged onto my credit card to make the round-trip free and since I had nothing better to do except worry, I tucked the address Martin gave me into my coat pocket and left a note for Jon in the hall.
    It takes two days to drive down east, one, if you decide not to eat or sleep on the way. I promised myself I’d never do either again and I buckled up for the short two-hour flight to Halifax. Despite an inordinate fear of flying, I felt relatively calm.
    We flew directly into a full-blown Maritime gale. Coastal headwinds turned the plane into a rocketing bronco ride while booming thunder sent me into near epileptic fits. The student pilot, courtesy Air Canada, announced that we would be landing safely in Halifax in a few minutes. A tad optimistic given the plane was in a nosedive, plummeting to the ground at the speed of light.
    â€œWe are making a rapid descent due to the storm,” the flight attendant explained. “Quite routine.”
    â€œReally,” I said, “because my brain thinks it’s in a pressure cooker.”
    I couldn’t muster enough saliva to swallow and my sinuses felt as if they had been hot-wired with a glue gun. When the flight attendant, alarmed by my frantic gulping, leaned over my seat, I locked my arms around his neck and held on for dear life. The plane shuddered then calmly levelled out.
    â€œSee,” he said, pushing the word out through tiny wolverine-esque teeth.
    I let go quickly before more spittle landed on my sleeve and handed him a twenty for his trouble.
    Grateful to be back on terra firma , I practically skipped over to the car rental office. After requesting the biggest car on the lot, the agency loaned me a roomy sedan complete with leather seats that slid all the way back. I’m five foot nine-and-a-half inches in my bare feet and need plenty of leg room or else I start to cramp. I picked up a complimentary Toronto newspaper off the counter and purchased a map from a revolving metal display unit standing next to it. I estimated I had about seventy miles to drive to Portsmith, a little seaside town where Daniel’s sister Meriel lived, and where, according to Marty Wright, Daniel was hiding. With one shoe kicked off and the other on the accelerator, I eased away from the rental pad under a late afternoon sky.
    I like driving, especially alone. The solitude allows me to replay conversations gone woefully wrong. In my line of business, keeping up an appropriate amount of friendly banter — while remaining tuned in to the operation running at high speed all around me — tends to lead me into conversations where I appear to be a complete idiot. In the car, I imagined how it might have gone, practising future responses for a smarter comeback. I talk out loud and by the time I’ve worked out all the kinks and arrived at my destination, I’m my old self again — completely indifferent.
    Dusk was circling on the horizon, not a night sky yet, but coming fast. The dwindling light played tricks on my eyes and straining to focus on the road, I remembered that few lodgings existed on this wind-swept province. A little-known fact discovered when I was