S IT WAS originally configured, the subcompact had not exactly fit Decker since they were roughly the same size. They had finally taken out the front seat and he had wedged himself into the tiny back with his long legs sticking into the front of the car over the hump where the seat had been.

He sat with his eyes closed and his hands resting over his substantial belly. They had stopped by his room and he had packed a canvas bag with some clean clothes. He had learned that Jamison kept a suitcase packed and in the tiny trunk of her car.

“Standard operating procedure for a reporter,” she informed him.

Jamison looked at him anxiously in the rearview mirror as they sped along. “I wish you could make the seat belt reach you back there.”

“Just don’t have an accident,” said Decker, his eyes still closed. “I will make a very large projectile, bigger than your car. You really don’t want to find out the mass times velocity of my ass in flight.”

She looked back at the road. They had been on the interstate for over three hours. They were now in Indiana. They had about another four hours to go.

“I got us rooms on Expedia,” she said. “At a Comfort Inn outside of Chicago. It won’t break my bank account.” She turned to look at him. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“I did tell you. Brockton, Illinois. It’s a suburb twenty miles south of Chicago. Not to be confused with Brocton, Illinois, which is a village in Embarrass Township outside of Champaign with a population of about three hundred.”

“Embarrass Township? Seriously?”

“I didn’t name it.”

“Okay, but you haven’t told me where in Brockton we’re going.”

“To the street address Leopold left for me to find.”

“Seven-one-one what?”

“Mallard two thousand is the street name.”

“There’s not a street with that name in Illinois. I checked.”

“There is a street with that name, but it goes by something else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It was a thinly veiled code, Jamison. Try to figure it out.”

Minutes went by. “Okay, I give. I suck at crosswords.”

“The street is Duckton Avenue.”

“Duckton?”

“Now try to figure it out in reverse. It won’t take you long. I have faith.”

She focused back on the road. “Shit,” she said a few moments later. “A mallard is a duck and two thousand pounds equals a ton. Duckton.”

“Congratulations, you just made junior detective grade.”

“But what is at seven-one-one Duckton Avenue?”

“It’s a place I used to call home.”

She jerked around to look at him, but he was now gazing out the side window.

“Your home?”

“Later, Jamison. For now, just drive. No seat belt, remember?”

She angrily turned back around, popped the accelerator, and smiled appreciatively when she heard his head clunk against the back of the car’s interior from the sudden uptick in speed.

They stopped at a truck diner off the interstate for a bathroom break, a refueling, and a bite to eat.

Jamison ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Corona. Decker had a large pizza and a Coke.

He eyed her food. “Despite the Chinese last night, I had measured you up as a health nut.”

She bit into the burger and let fatty juice roll down her chin before wiping it away. “I could probably eat you under the table.”

“Maybe in another life.”

“What do you expect to find out at this Duckton place?”

“If it’s still there. I tried to call the number I used to have, but it’s been changed. And the place’s number is not listed.”

“But what is the place, Decker? You called it home.”

“It was where people like me were poked, prodded, and tested.”

Jamison lowered her burger. “With all the memory geniuses? The…the institute?”

“Savants, autistics, Asperger’s, synesthesia, and hyperthymesia.”

“Hyper what?”

“Thymesia. In Greek, hyper means ‘excessive,’ and thymesia translates to ‘memory.’ Put ’em together and you get me. True hyperthymesia really relates to near-perfect recall of one’s personal or autobiographical past. I have that, but I also can’t forget anything I see, read, or hear. Perfect recall of, well, everything. I had no idea my brain was that big. But I apparently use more of it than most, but only because I got my ass handed to me on a football field.”

“And synesthesia?”

“I see colors where others don’t. In numbers, in places and objects. My cognitive sensory pathways apparently also got melded from the hit I took.”

“I appreciate your telling me all this. But I’m surprised too. You strike me as a private guy.”

“I am a private guy. I’ve never told anyone about this, except for my wife.”

“Then why tell me? We don’t really know each other.”

Before answering Decker ate a bite of pepperoni pizza, followed by a long swig of Coke. “We’re tracking down killers together, Jamison. They’ve murdered a lot of people, including an FBI agent. I figure I owe you the whole story because you’re putting your life on the line.”

She put her burger down and took a small drink of her beer. “You’re making me sound a lot braver than I am,” she said softly.

He ate another few bites of pizza and slurped down his Coke. “Let’s hope you’re wrong about that.”