He made Virginia the first day, keeping his speed under seventy, though the Monte Carlo’s big V8 wanted to do more. Other cars passed him in a blur.

He didn’t stop for food, ate two of the chocolate bars instead.

When his eyes grew tired, the white line double, he found a motel off 95. The fat white man at the desk wanted identification. Morgan turned away, was leaving the lobby when the man called him back. When Morgan handed him seventy in cash, the man counted it twice.

In the room, Morgan spread the map on the bed and traced his route. He’d try to make Savannah tomorrow night, would drive as late as it took. Then into Florida the next morning.

His cell buzzed on the bed. He picked it up, saw it was C-Love’s number.

“Yeah.”

“Take this down,” C-Love said.

“Hold on.”

He went to the writing desk, got a sheet of motel stationery, a pen. “Go ahead.”

“Where you at?”

“Place called Emporia.”

“Where’s that?”

“Virginia.”

C-Love read off a ten-digit number. “Woman’s name is Simone. She knows you’re on the way. Hit her on that number when you get down there. She says she got some information for you.”

“Anything I should tell her?”

“You don’t need to tell her shit. Just find out what she got, take it from there. They released the body, so she getting ready to fly back. After you hook up with her, call me. Big Man’ll wanna talk to you.”

“After I hear what she says, I’ll handle it my way, whatever I think is best. He knows that, right?”

“He knows. He just want to talk, see what your sitch is. See if you need some help.”

“No help,” Morgan said.

“Might change your mind when you get down there. Can’t never tell how that shit’s gonna play out.”

“I’ll call after I talk to her. Tell him that.”

“I’ll do that. You stay in touch, bro.”

Morgan pushed END. He was feeling the miles, the ache in his back and hips.

He checked the lock on the door, set the chain. He felt vulnerable without the Beretta. He turned the TV on, the sound low, just to have another presence in the room. He folded the map, switched the lamp off, lay on the bed fully clothed, the TV light flickering on the walls. In a few minutes, he was asleep.

Crossing into Georgia, Morgan had the windows open, Bunny Sigler on the tape deck. Warm air blew through the car. Forest on both sides of the highway, green and thick. Then suddenly, on his left, a wide river running parallel to the road, the sun sparkling on its surface. After a few miles, the river turned, winding back through the forest like some primeval scene, a painting from a book.

He’d bought a pair of sunglasses at a Stuckey’s in South Carolina and put them on now against the glare. He wore a gray pullover, sleeves pushed up, the leather coat folded on the backseat. The sun and breeze felt good. He hadn’t taken a Vicodin that morning, hadn’t needed it. He felt awake, alert, the highway unfolding in front of him, the air sweet. Newark felt like another world, another time.

He drove past billboards for pecan logs, fireworks. Past Waffle House and gas station signs mounted on high poles visible from the elevated roadway. Every few miles, he passed pieces of torn-up truck tires on the shoulder. He’d push as far into Georgia as he could, until the fatigue was too much, then stop for the night.

Tomorrow he’d cross into Florida, head west on 301, the route that would take him around Gainesville, then south again. I-75 part of the way, then local roads past Lakeland, deep into the heart of the state. He’d marked Hopedale on the map, had picked a town named Arcadia to stay in. It was in a different county, an hour northwest. Close enough to get in and out easily, far enough away that his presence wouldn’t be known.

He turned the volume up. Bunny telling his woman he’d be home soon. A phone call from a bus station. Only a few more hours to go.

The trees dropped away on both sides, gave way to rows of white-tipped plants stretching forever, like a carpet of snow. Cotton fields, he realized. He drove on.

He crossed the border a little before noon and turned off I-95 onto 301, the map open on the seat beside him. For most of the ride, Florida had seemed like more Georgia, but now the terrain began to change. He passed swamps and canals, thick trees with hanging moss. Barns with tin-patched roofs, chickens in the yards.

He stopped for lunch outside Ocala, a fast food drive-through, and ate half a hamburger before his stomach rebelled. He sipped Coke to settle it, got back on the road. Soon he began to see signs for Lakeland. He found it on the map, traced the roads that would take him southeast.

Near Arcadia, he passed a row of unpainted shotgun shacks hard by the roadside. In front of one of them, two black children played in the dirt. They watched as he drove by.

Twenty minutes later, he found what he wanted. The motel was set back from the highway. It was a sixties-style motor court, U-shaped with semidetached cottages, all gray wood and clanking air conditioners. Only four other cars in the lot. The pool was empty and cracked.

The old black man behind the bulletproof glass in the office had no problem taking Morgan’s cash. No maid service. Washer and dryer in back, quarters only. Ice machine free. Morgan paid for four nights in advance.

He pulled the Monte Carlo around back, out of sight of the access road. Trees back here, a narrow creek running through, and everywhere the rotten egg smell of nearby swamp.

The key was on a diamond-shaped piece of plastic. He let himself into the small room-a single bed, bureau, nightstand, desk, television, no phone. A jalousie door with roll-up shade. He turned the air conditioner on. It thumped and shook but eventually blew a stream of cool air into the room.

His pullover was soaked through with sweat. He peeled it off and tossed it on the bed. He pulled the heavy curtains shut, found they didn’t meet. A band of sunlight still blazed through.

He touched his toes, held the position to let the tension in his back ease. It was good to be off the road. It had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He got his cell out, looked at it, then put it on the nightstand. He’d rest a while, then make the call.

He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, felt the miles start to fall away from him. He slept.

• • •

He was lying on the bed, fully dressed, when the tap came at the door. He looked at his watch. It was a little past nine.

He got up, edged the door shade aside. A woman stood in the yellow glare of the outside light. An oversized purse hung from her shoulder.

He opened the door. A cab that said SAINT CHARLES TAXI on its side waited in the lot, the white driver watching them.

“You need to pay him,” the woman said.

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

He got his wallet from the bureau, took out two twenties and a ten, gave them to her.

“You do it,” he said. “Tell him to wait around, but not out there. Tell him to go somewhere, drive around, come back in twenty minutes. You won’t be long.”

“What if he doesn’t want to wait?”

“Then he drives all the way back down there with an empty cab and no fare. Or he stays, makes another fifty dollars and a twenty tip. Tell him. He’ll wait.”

She went back out. Morgan switched off all the lights except the one on the nightstand. He heard the cab pull away. When she came back into the room, she shut the door behind her. He caught her purse strap, turned her, and had it off her arm before she realized it.

“Man, what the-”

He opened it. Cosmetics, wallet, cell phone, a thick white legal envelope. He took the envelope out, tossed it on the bed, shook the purse, saw there was nothing else in it. He handed it back to her.