Black Panamera

2:53pm

This HOV lane is about to end, and Adam is not going to make it out. Main-lane traffic is crawling up ahead. He is going to try to squeeze in between the cars like a pastry slipping into a toaster, but it’s not going to work. And if it’s not going to work for Adam, it won’t work for me because I’m right behind him. I have already calculated the time we have left before the exit based on our speed and distance. The exit is in 2.1 miles. I’m keeping up with his speed of 95 MPH. In 2.1--now 2 miles flat, we will both be forced to exit into a wall of metal cages housing real people. We have 1 minute and 15--no, 12 seconds now to figure out how to stay alive.

2:49pm

Adam’s flying across these I-10 lanes diagonally like a maniac. He’s headed for the entrance to the HOV lane. Smart. I pick up speed and follow his path. I haven’t been able to catch up to him yet without risking the lives of other drivers. In HOV, with hardly any traffic, I might have a shot. I can hear sirens; police are not far behind. They’ll need to understand that I’m the good guy, and this Adam character is not. I’m the one who called 9-1-1. It’s not my fault the response was too slow. I had no choice but to keep up with the man who stole my brand-new car, and I’ll keep chasing him west to San Antonio if I have to.

2:46pm

If Adam gets so much as a scratch on my new car, I will sue him for all he’s worth. Why won’t these people on the highway go at least the speed limit? He weaves, then I weave; it’s a miracle one of us hasn’t crashed yet. He doesn’t know Houston like I do, so any minute now, he’s going to find himself in an exit lane he didn’t intend to be in, and I will wedge him in between my truck and a median. I hope this doesn’t have to come to violence. I have a weapon in my truck; I’m betting he has one too, stuffed somewhere in my car that he’s trying to steal right in front of my eyes.

2:42pm

“Babe, you were right! He’s a scam artist.”

“Elliott, no way! He was trying to steal the car all along! Where are you?”

“I’m in pursuit!”

“I’m sorry, pursuit?”

“Yeah, he’s got the Porsche, Babe. Our new Porsche. I surprised him, found him at a motel. I tried to confront him, maybe give him the benefit of the doubt, but he ruined any shred of humanity he had left when he jumped into our car and took off.”

“So, you’re chasing him in your truck? You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Babe, I’m a great driver.”

“Ugh. Should I call the police?”

“I already did. Hang tight, I’ll call you back when I catch him.”

“When you catch him! Elliott, are you cra--?”

2:40pm

“9-1-1 What’s your emergency?”

“My car has been stolen!”

“Okay Sir calm down. Are you sure?”

“Uh ya.”

“Where did this occur?”

“At the Green Trees Motel off of I-45.”

“And when, Sir?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Can you give me any other information?”

“It’s a black 2010 Porsche Panamera. I just bought it last week. The man who stole it is the delivery driver for the dealership. He brought it all the way from the dealer in Florida to Houston but started acting shady when I tried to set a delivery time with him. He says his name is Adam.”

“Do you know in which direction he drove?”

“Even better. I’ve got eyes on him.”

“Eyes, Sir?”

“Yes. I’m in pursuit.”

“Purs--!”

“I followed him south on 45, and we exited onto Loop 610. Now, we’re headed West.”

2:36pm

I guess we’re doing this. You can’t escape me, buddy. I knew it! Well, my wife knew it. She told me to question everything Adam was saying. He stopped answering my calls, would only text, and would never answer anything directly. I asked for the date and time of delivery; he would always respond with a vague tomorrow, and then soon after he would cancel. I asked for the address where the car was parked. He said he needed to ask his wife. That one completely stumped me! He was the one who parked the car here in the city! Supposedly his wife traveled with him to Houston to deliver the car, and when he left Houston to fly back to Florida for a “family emergency” and delayed the car delivery, he left her here. To sit in Houston by herself? And only she knows where the car is parked? Your story doesn’t add up, Adam, if that’s really your name.

2:35pm

“Adam?” He turns and looks at me then takes off running towards the Porsche. “What are you doing? You can’t just--!” Adam jumps into the driver’s seat of the black Panamera he’s supposed to be handing me the keys to right now. As he peels out of the motel parking lot, I run to my truck, screech out of my parking spot, and chase after him.

2:34pm

“Can I help you, Sir?”

“I’m looking for a man named Adam and/or his wife. He has something of mine. We were supposed to meet today?”

“I don’t know anything about that, Sir. Plus, I can’t give out information about our guests here at the motel.”

I grab my wallet. Maybe a 20-spot will do the trick. “Right. I—”

The door chimes behind me; I turn to look, but no one is there. Someone must have walked out. A knowing feeling churns in my stomach. I abandon the front desk to follow the person to the parking lot.

2:32pm

This is my car! The vin number is a match. Why is it at this motel? Was it never at the La Quinta Inn? Maybe Adam’s wife moved it from the La Quinta to here. But why? I need to find her and get the keys. I just want this ordeal to be over. I could go inside and ask the guy at the front desk. Maybe he knows something.

2:30pm

As I take the gas pump out of my car and turn to put it back in its holster, a glimmer of hope from across the street catches my eye. A shiny black car is in the parking lot of that motel over there. Green Trees Motel. Never heard of it. I can’t pass up this chance, though. I slap the fuel door closed and jump into my truck.

2:24pm

I’m losing steam and also getting madder. I called the dealership a minute ago, but they have no answers for me. They said I need to work everything out with Adam directly. They don’t believe that Adam could have scammed me. They said if he says he had a family emergency, then he had a family emergency. Yeah, right. He may have pulled the wool over the eyes of his employer, but I won’t let him do that to me.

When he first left Florida, he told me when he and his wife arrived in Houston with my car, they would be staying at a LaQuinta Inn off of Beltway 8. He ignored me when I texted him asking for the specific address. I have spent the last two hours circling the 88-mile long Beltway, stopping at every single LaQuinta Inn to check the parking lots for a black Porsche Panamera. My Porsche. I haven’t seen a sign of it anywhere. I’m on I-45 heading south now, toward the direction of my house. Adam won’t answer my calls or texts, and I have no idea what he has done with my car, so I guess I need to go home and re-group. My truck needs gas first. I’m adding the gas money to Adam’s tab when I find him.

************

2:54pm

You have to decelerate, Adam. You have 12 seconds, buddy. He’s going 85 MPH now, not enough of a drop in speed. I’ve dropped down to 60 MPH, which is not enough of a drop either, considering the cars outside of this lane, that we will soon join, are going 10 MPH.

Nine seconds.

If Adam is not an expert in Tokyo drifting, he is going to destroy my car and probably hurt these innocent I-10 commuters.

Seven seconds.

He’s decelerated some, but no brake lights yet. Flashing lights have appeared in my rearview. The cops have finally caught up to us. They’re too far back to help prevent a wreck here, though. Maybe later they’ll award me a medal of bravery or something.

Six seconds.

I’m looking for an opening. I might be able to slip behind that blue sedan and make it into the next lane over without hitting anyone. I hope Adam sees the opening I see. No one has to get hurt, and neither does my car. Please.

Four seconds.

Still no brake lights. What’s your plan, buddy? Are you praying that Moses will part the sea?

Three seconds.

Blue sedan, I need you to keep your position. We both need to glide out of this HOV lane like an Olympic ice-skating duo, one right after another, through that opening to make it free and clear into the snail-like traffic. Then, we’ll be forced to crawl, and it will all be over for Adam.

One second.

He turns the front tires and slams the brakes a second earlier than I expect, taking my shiny new Porsche into an impressive drift to the right, out of the HOV lane into full-blown traffic, knocking down bendable plastic barriers on his way out and narrowly missing a white minivan. I slam down on my brakes to follow Adam’s pathway, but before I make it out of the HOV lane, the Porsche begins a wild tailspin, kicking cars out of its path like dominoes, as if it’s trying to open a perfectly circular wormhole in the middle of the highway.

I make a split-second decision to pull to the left and stop my truck inside the HOV lane, halting merely two inches from the concrete barriers marking the end of the lane. Within seconds the cops approach my vehicle, and traffic in the main lanes is now completely stopped as drivers and passengers take in the scene.

The damage of the nearby vehicles appears to be minimal, luckily. And by some miracle, my shiny new Porsche looks unscathed. I’m sure it has marks I can’t see from 60 yards away, but it seems to be alive and glowing. Adam abandons the vehicle and takes off into a sprint in the middle of the highway. Does this guy have a death sentence?

“Step out of the vehicle, hands where we can see them!”

They’re yelling at me, the hero. Why? I step out and raise my hands. “Officers, that’s your perpetrator right there. Look!”

They don’t look. They cuff me. Two police cars slice their way through the stopped traffic to pursue a running Adam. He finally gives up and holds his arms high. The black Panamera sits alone, facing the wrong way on the highway, used and abandoned, no longer needed. Expendable to Adam but loved by me. Adam, she is mine, and I am hers. We will have our revenge.