Dale Eustis needed some luck. He needed it sooner rather than later. Good luck, not bad. He'd already had plenty of the bad kind. It was the bad kind that had landed him between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Stranded him there, in Portland, a city he barely knew and had no desire to get to know better.

Dale only wanted to go home. Well, to San Francisco, the closest thing he had to a home. And to get there he needed some luck.

He felt betrayed. He had been betrayed, but what could one expect? "Lie down with dogs," his Bible-thumping grandmother used to say. For once she would have been right. The old cow liked being right. Dead ten years and still her cut-glass voice wouldn't leave his head. She would have liked that, too.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly bad luck that had hung him out to dry in that wet town. It was deceit. By the look of things, a pure, old-fashioned double cross by his so-called partners. But why? Everything had been running so smoothly—clerks and waiters, greedy to make a few bucks, willing to run the cards of clueless customers through scanners; a well-hidden garage operation (even Dale didn't know where it was) where bogus cards were made with the stolen account numbers; a like-clockwork distribution network up and down the coast. That's where Dale came in: distribution. The middleman, though the way he saw it, something more...important. It was he who would light out to new territories, find new operatives. A vital part of the operation. That's what had brought him to Portland in the first place.

From the moment he arrived in the stinking "Rose City," it did nothing but rain. Two days running, he waited by the fountain outside the Portland Building, but his connection never showed. When he called the only number he had for the guy, he got that recorded voice: no longer in service. The cell numbers of his partners back in L.A. had been disconnected, too. And none of the cards he was carrying worked. He tried half the debit cards at five different ATMs before giving up. Same with the credit cards—rejected. Now, on Day Three, money was running low. He couldn't even come up with enough cash to get the hell out of town.

And he wouldn't get much sympathy if he went to the police and told them his partners in crime had left him stranded.

He hadn't had enough cash for even the seediest motel, so he'd slept the night before in Washington Park, sheltered from the rain by a culvert near the Forestry Center. By morning, the rain had finally stopped and, with nothing else to do, he wandered over to the zoo, as good a place to think as any, he supposed. He managed to get through the turnstiles without paying admission (Nine bucks! Just to look at a bunch of pathetic animals?) by glomming onto a school group and acting like one of the parent chaperones. Then he faded away from the group while the harried teacher was trying to pair off the kids by the buddy system. Good luck, sister. He killed some time checking out the exhibits, wandering past the bears and giraffes and monkeys, trying to figure a way out of this mess. Everybody else at the zoo was part of a family or group, but no one seemed to take much notice of a solitary young man. People rarely noticed Dale, which was why he had been so good at distribution.

Now that the rain had ceased, it started to get hot, so after an interminable hour communing with the caged beasts, Dale headed over to the refreshment stand for something to drink. He was hungry, too, but his budget wouldn't stretch to the steep food prices, so he just ordered a small Coke. He took a seat at an unoccupied table on the patio. The snack bar had been built alongside a miniature railway depot where a narrow-gauge train, complete with a shrunken nineteenth century-style locomotive, periodically departed or returned. Too cute for words, Dale thought. He sat for almost an hour, watching the happy, waving children and their proportionately unhappy, exhausted parents board or disembark from the train. Not a care in the world, he thought. Suckers.

He took out his cell phone—at least it hadn't been turned off—and tried to call Sam again. Disconnected. Then Carlos. No longer in service. He had to fight off panic. What was going on? Why had they done this to him? He thought they had been a pretty good team. Now he was stranded in freaking Portland, the last place he wanted to be. Out of luck, big time.

Or maybe not.

Dale spotted a man approaching the plaza. The guy was out of breath, animated, disheveled. Feeling the heat. Dale monitored the guy with interest, and watched as he threw something into the trashcan, then went over to the snack bar, where he picked up a pre-wrapped sandwich and ordered a soda. He took his food and drink over to a vacant table, and before sitting, removed a fanny-pack from around his waist, and placed it on the tabletop beside the food. Because it was the kind of thing Dale had trained himself to notice, he saw right away that the guy neglected to zip up the pack after paying for his food. Bingo. The chump seemed to be alone, too. Lucky for Dale. Even better, he was about Dale's age and size.

Dale let a few minutes pass, biding his time. When he heard the announcement that the little tourist train was just two minutes from departure, the pieces of his plan came together. He strolled over to the man with the sandwich.

"Got a cigarette?" Dale asked.

The man looked up, startled by the interruption. Then it was Dale's turn to be surprised, because the face he was looking into was astonishingly like his own. Rounder, yes, for this guy had more meat on his bones than Dale, but there was no denying the resemblance. They could have been brothers.

"Uh, no," the seated man managed. "Don't smoke."

Dale could tell from the guy's expression that he, too, found the resemblance uncanny. But he made no comment. He stared at Dale for a couple of seconds, then turned his attention back to his lunch. Dale shook off the weirdness of the moment, then with the sleight of hand that had always served him well, seized the opportunity to lift the guy's wallet from the open fanny pack.

"Thanks anyway," he said.

The man didn't look up or even bother to acknowledge these parting words. Dale strode quickly across the plaza, bought a ticket for the train, and boarded just before it pulled away.

The little train rode through the wooded park for a few miles, but Dale didn't waste time taking in the beauty of the local flora. Sitting by himself in the last seat of the first car, he searched through the contents of the stolen wallet. Sixty-seven dollars in cash, two credit cards, and a driver's license issued in Washington State. The name on the license was Warren Jeffers. The height listed was the same as Dale's; the weight a little higher. In the washed out mug shot on the license, Jeffers could easily have been Dale.

No question, it was spooky. Was this Jeffers guy related to him in some way? Dale was an only child, raised by his single mother and crazy grandmother in an increasingly dismal series of down-market trailer parks south of Atlanta. His mother died when he was ten, and after that it was just he and Gram, until he hitched a ride west three days after his sixteenth birthday. He never knew his father, didn't even know the bastard's name. Come to think of it, he chuckled to himself, it was he who was the bastard, wasn't he? His mother was an only child, too, and Dale never knew any cousins or distant relations. He'd never heard of any family connections in the great state of Washington, that was for sure.

But you couldn't beat the luck, Dale thought. If he was some kind of relative, the guy couldn't have picked a better time to waltz into Dale's life.

After a few minutes the train stopped at another miniature depot, this one alongside a rose garden. More damn roses, Dale thought. He got off and walked through the park until he found a bus, the number 63, that would take him back into the city. Downtown, he went into the first Internet café he saw and went online to book a flight to San Francisco, using Jeffers' American Express card to pay for it. He printed out a boarding pass, then took the light rail out to the airport. The TSA agent glanced at the photo ID, then at Dale, and scribbled an OK on the boarding pass. Dale made his flight with time to spare.

When he got to San Francisco, Dale took the BART into the city and booked himself, under the name Warren Jeffers, into a shabby hotel a few blocks from Union Square. The place was decidedly rundown, but it was better than what Dale was accustomed to, and was certainly a step up from the soggy ground in the park the night before. Since Jeffers' credit card was still working, Dale prepaid for an entire week.

He had no way of knowing how long the patsy would wait before canceling his cards, but until then, Dale planned on living large. He treated himself to an early dinner at John's Grill. Thirty bucks for a steak—outrageous, but it tasted heavenly. And a martini, extra dry. He put the meal on the second card, which to his surprise, and relief, was still working, too. After a piece of New York Cheesecake, he left the restaurant and wandered over to a bar he knew on McAllister. There were always some pretty amazing looking girls in that bar, and he bought drinks for an Asian girl and a white girl who had come in together. After talking to them for a few minutes, though, he realized they were too stuck-up for his taste. Lawyers, maybe. Or something over at City Hall. He should have known from the way they were dressed. He didn't mind—was really kind of glad—when they started talking to a couple of guys in thousand dollar suits. He just turned his full attention back to his martini. The Grey Goose had the desired effect. He was feeling pretty good, what with the prime dinner and the drinks and the free ride he was getting from that schmo Warren Jeffers. Screw Sam and Carlos. Who needed them? He'd be back on his feet in no time.

There was a TV above the bar, but Dale couldn't hear it over the din in the room. Still, he watched CNN for a while, occasionally reading the news bites across the bottom of the screen. That attractive reporter with the foreign name he couldn't remember interviewed some guy in a turban, and then there was a report on New Orleans's misery two years after Katrina. Poor chumps, Dale thought. Didn't know enough to bail while the bailing was good. But, hey, wait a minute. What was he looking at now? On the screen was a headshot of a man. A driver's license photo. A photo that looked an awful lot like the one on the license that was in his pocket at that very moment. It couldn't be. But then they plastered the name Warren Jeffers across the bottom of the screen.

Dale stared in disbelief. Was he imaging this? Without sound, he had no idea what he was seeing, and the unconnected words about rising gas prices that scrolled across the bottom of the tube gave him no clues. Jeffers' photo was replaced by what appeared to be a high school graduation picture of a teenage girl, blonde and innocent looking. Then the newsreader was back. Her lips were moving, but lip reading was a skill Dale had never acquired.

Wobbly from the third martini, he staggered a little as he made his way down Larkin Street. Even with the effects of the alcohol, he was keenly aware that he had just seen something incomprehensible. He didn't know what it was all about, but he had a bad feeling. Would CNN run a new story about a guy who had his wallet stolen at the Portland Zoo? No way. And who was the pretty young thing with the honey blond hair? He needed to find out, but there was no TV in the fleabag room he'd rented.

Then, as if guided by some twisted guardian angel, Dale realized he was standing at the glass portal of the city's new public library. Well, new to anyone who had lived in the city and remembered the old public library. Here was the information he needed just a few clicks away. On sea legs, he climbed the stairs to the third floor, where he knew the Internet sign-up desk was located. The library was busy, but Dale was lucky to find an unclaimed terminal. That word again—lucky. First he visited the CNN web site. There was no pertinent headline under "latest news," but when he searched the name Jeffers, a story popped up: Murder suspect flees Portland.

Murder?

Dale clicked on the link and read. A man identified as Warren Jeffers is being sought by Portland police in connection with the murder of Carolyn Reynolds, 17, in Washington Park. Authorities have reason to believe that Jeffers left the city—

"Holy shit," Dale said aloud, earning a dirty look from the middle-age woman at the next computer.

He googled the Oregonian web site and read more details about the story. The girl had been found dead late that morning, her body discovered by two kids playing in a wooded area between the Children's Museum and the Zoo. The victim had been strangled, but there was no sign of sexual assault. The murder had been carried out with precision, and police were stymied by the lack of forensic evidence at the scene.

An insurance card bearing the name Warren Jeffers had been found not far from the girl's body. Only one witness had come forward, a woman who had seen a young man in the area around the estimated time of the killing. Details obtained from DMV records for Jeffers closely matched the witness's description of the man seen in the park. Credit card usage indicated that Jeffers left Portland on a flight in the early afternoon. Police would not reveal Jeffers' destination, but inquiries by the Oregonian reporter indicated that he may have flown to San Francisco.

Dale's alcohol-softened brain felt like a carnival tilt-a-whirl. Could Jeffers have murdered that girl? Hadn't he seemed agitated when he arrived at the café in the zoo? Of all the pigeons for Dale to target. Now the police believed that Jeffers was in San Francisco. But, of course, it was he, Dale, they were following. Dale, who looked a lot like Jeffers and was carrying—was using—his credit cards. He had taken on the identity of a criminal. Of a killer.

Dale clicked on a sidebar piece and read more about Jeffers. He was a year younger than Dale. Like Dale, he was originally from Georgia, a fact that went straight to Dale's heart. Could they be related? Could they be brothers, even? Could the father Dale never knew have been Jeffers' father, too?

He could tell the police who he really was. Why he had been in Portland and what he had seen. But would they believe him? The real Jeffers was no doubt long gone, maybe out of the country already. Certainly no longer using his real name, now that it was splashed all over the national news. No, but Dale had used it, forged the signature of an alleged killer. The paper said they had little or no forensic evidence. That could mean no DNA. But if there were DNA, and he and Jeffers were somehow related—brothers—would Dale be able to prove he hadn't been the one who killed that girl?

He needed to stop being Warren Jeffers right here and now. Back to Dale Eustis, loser. Loser, maybe, but not murderer. Identity thief, yes, but not murderer.

He was about to do a search to find out what he could about DNA evidence, but a librarian tapped him on the shoulder and told him it was time to log off. It was almost eight o'clock and the library was closing.

He needed to go back to the hotel, get his things, and clear out. If he had to, he would sleep in Golden Gate Park. He'd try to find Sam or Carlos. They would have to help him. They could swear to his real identity. This was bigger than any misunderstanding they might have about the operation.

When Dale got to the hotel, everything seemed normal. He thought maybe the clerk behind the bulletproof glass gave him a funny look, but he told himself he was just being paranoid. Even if he had used Jeffers' credit card to pay for the room, it had only been a few hours. The police couldn't possibly have tracked him down yet.

Up in the room he threw his few possessions into his backpack and stuffed the little bit of cash he had left into his pocket. It wasn't enough for a room anywhere. He wondered how far he could get on a Greyhound. He would head for the terminal and get on a bus to Los Angeles. Or Vegas. It was easy to get lost in Vegas. And he'd be Dale Eustis again. He'd ditch Jeffers' wallet and cards down a grate in the street on his way to the bus station. Goodbye Jeffers, hello Eustis. The cops had never heard of Dale Eustis. They were looking for Warren Jeffers, and he was probably in Canada by now.

In Vegas he'd find something to get him by. There was always something going down in Vegas. Hell, he didn't need Sam or Carlos. He could start his own operation. He'd always been damn good at the identity theft game.

Dale zipped up his backpack and moved to turn out the lamp next to the sagging bed he would never get a chance to sleep in. Then there was a sound—the creak of a hinge—and he turned to see someone step out of the darkness of the bathroom. Warren Jeffers.

"Nice to see you again," the intruder said, though his voice, flat as tin, betrayed no pleasure. He steadied a handgun in the direct vicinity of Dale's head.

"But...how did you find me?" Dale stuttered from his shock. "Wait...how did you get—?"

Jeffers laughed. "I just told the desk clerk I'd lost my key. He thought I was you. Imagine that."

"But, how—"

"The minute I saw you lift my wallet, it all fell into place. You're an easy guy to follow."

Dale didn't know much about guns—despite the life he led, he'd never had the need to own one—but he could see that the one Jeffers was holding so intently was outfitted with a silencer. This time, Dale knew he needed more than luck. He needed to buy some time.

"Why'd you want to find me? I figured you'd be out of the country by now."

"I won't have to leave the country if I'm dead," Jeffers said.

The meaning of Jeffers' words sank in. This killer had come to kill him. Dale noticed that his look-alike was wearing gloves. He planned to make it look like suicide. The only prints in the room would belong to the dead man—to Dale—and the cops would think they'd found their murderer. Case closed.

Jeffers took two steps closer across the small room, narrowing the distance between predator and prey. Dale, cornered where the bed met the nightstand, calculated his options. With no time to waste, he gave the lamp a shove. As Jeffers' eyes were drawn to its freefall crash to the floor, Dale seized the momentary distraction. He leapt at his assailant, knocking him to the floor with an elbow punch to the gut.

Dale, pressing Jeffers to the floor with the full weight of his slight body, struggled to wrest the gun away, but the killer's grip remained tight on the weapon. Jeffers swung his stiffened arm like a truncheon and Dale felt metal glance off the side of his head. Losing his balance, he teetered to his side. With the dexterity of a wrestler, Jeffers took the advantage and was on top of Dale in a flash. Dale felt the sharp stab of the other man's knee on his chest. As Jeffers forced his full body weight downward, Dale could barely breathe. Pinning one of Dale's wrists to the floor with his free hand, the hunter held the gun to his quarry's temple. Dale felt the icy patina of gun metal against his skin. He knew his luck had run out. He had nothing more to lose.

The words choked out of him. "Why'd you kill the girl?"

The question hung thick in the air as the hatred on Jeffers' reddened face intensified. Time seemed to suspend and, later, Dale would swear he heard the click of the gun at the very moment he marshaled every ounce of the adrenaline coursing in his blood. With his free hand he managed to grab Jeffers' wrist and deflect the gun away from his own head.

Its trajectory altered, the bullet entered Jeffers' skull just beneath his right eye. A crack of bone, and the force of the shot snapped the head back. The lifeless body collapsed on top of Dale, who, spent and shuddering, used the last of his strength to push it off and onto the worn carpeting beside the bed. Jeffers' twisted expression had calmed into a look of stunned disappointment. The only sound in the room was Dale's labored breathing, the only movement, the rivulet of blood trickling down the cheek of the dead man.

With the instincts of a wild beast, Dale jumped to his feet and grabbed his backpack from the foot of the bed. Even in his wired state, he remembered to check the dead man's pockets. He found almost three hundred dollars, and something else—a driver's license, issued in Georgia. Georgia. The picture was Jeffers, but the name said Leonard Solomon. He shoved them in his pack. He could be this Solomon. The cops weren't looking for a Leonard Solomon. He pulled out the wallet and license he'd taken in Portland and put them in Jeffers' pocket. They'd find their man, the real Warren Jeffers, right here in room 403.

At the last moment, Dale picked up Jeffers' gun. You never knew when it might come in handy. He threw the pack over his shoulder and pulled open the door, set to run. Two cops standing on the threshold saw the gun in his hand and drew their own weapons as one. The taller of them shouted something about a body on the floor.

"No, wait," Dale cried. "I'm not...It's not what you think."

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Robert Weibezahl