Page 3 of Hidden Rocco
Rocco nodded but didn’t say anything else that might give him away.
The man pulled over two minutes later near the bus station.
He hadn’t had to risk walking in the open at all. The driver rolled down his window. Rocco stepped out and said, “Have a nice night.”
Should he ask the man’s name? If he was polite, he would exchange information. Rocco patted him on the shoulder and hoped he didn’t smell like the garbage he'd waded through. He quickly lifted his hand. “Thanks again, sir.”
The man waved before driving off and Rocco checked all the doors to the bus station visually.
Six entrances and exits with no one going in our out.
Inside the door, he saw long benches, ticket counters and overhead display TVs.
No police in sight. He headed in, and made his way toward the counters on the far end, passing the food court.
The food court had a burger place, a coffee counter with the longest line, a fried food vendor, and a pretzel shop.
The smell of the oil for the burgers was the strongest.
The white florescent lights meant there were no shadows anywhere as families grouped together in the coffee and food lines. The lights were so bright they almost blinded his retinas.
Prison never shone with this many watts.
Rocco approached the section for ticket sales where the sellers sat behind windows with gold bars like a bank teller.
He sauntered toward an older man with a white moustache, reaching into his pocket that held every penny he’d socked away when money wasn’t a normal form of compensation in prison.
Rocco had dreamed of escape for two years of his five-year sentence, but the dream turned into a plan of action once his mother had sent him a letter saying that she was dying. Roger’s death a few months back, then Harry’s, who’d followed their brother right to his grave, had her reeling.
No letter he could write would convince Mary Hellsworth to change her mind.
Nothing would, except for her to see him, in person.
Rocco had always been the good son, her reason to live, until Roger robbed that bank in Vegas and set Rocco up to take the rap.
Rocco ignored how his stomach was in knots at being out in public again when for years he’d been secluded and smiled at the older man with wrinkles and astute brown eyes. “One ticket please.”
“You look awful.” The man’s nose twitched.
Rocco lowered his body and leaned against the counter as he searched for a fast answer. “I had my phone and wallet stolen.”
The sharp gaze softened and the old man scooted his chair forward. “That’s too bad, son.” He counted blank white tickets and put them back in a pile. “So, where to?”
Good question. Rocco hadn’t planned on answering so many questions. He’d planned a walk to the bus station, and here he was. He’d been friendly in his previous life. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Doug,” the old man replied with a nod.
The announcer said Bus 782 to Tucson was departing in two minutes. People headed in from the terminal and right toward the six front doors. Rocco’s ears heard every footstep like they echoed, and he turned to see two officers walking together into the station.
His pulse quickened. “Doug, I need to start over. Where does the next bus go?”
“Denver,” Doug said. “It’s a nice place to start over.”
“I’ll take your advice then.” Rocco kept his head down, and hopefully unnoticed as he continued, “I’ve always wanted to see the Mile High City.”
“That will be one hundred and twenty dollars,” Doug said.
That price tag was out of his budget. Prison didn’t work on a cash system. His muscles flexed, prepared to fight his way out of the station as the officers came closer. “How far will twenty bucks get me?”
