Who: Alexander What: Where in the world is Alexander Murphy? Where: All over Vegas When: Now ish Warnings/Rating: A questionable lack of morality.
The first plan had been weakness. A momentarily flight of fancy that he would go to the police first after the accident, but what would it gain him? Leniency? A horrid little cot in an equally horrible little cell for an undetermined amount of time. Certainly shorter than it would be if the case went to trial and he was convicted, but that -- that was as equally distasteful. And in the end, he hadn't gone. He couldn't force himself to walk into that police station with the awful florescent lights and the scent of cheap coffee to give a report that would certainly damn him and that he'd doctor enough to take Clementine with him. Prison was a main course he never wanted to try.
The second plan an elaborate thing of briberies and chances. The dice were loaded, the cards stacked, and when it came down to it, there wasn't enough time to make this neat, not if he went with his this plan. So, as he sat crouched within a hearse (it had been meant as a joke) belonging to one of his butterflies, he came up with something new.
Speed, simplicity. Chloe would never be safe until she was far from here and maybe not even then. The same was true for himself, but he knew how to remake himself, to continue without family name and as much as he would have wished otherwise for her, that wasn't a possibility now.
He stopped by the house long enough to say goodbye to his butterflies, to take the money out of the safe in his bedroom and send them flying free with the kittens that had once adopted his little band. The journal burned in the fireplace, a crack of binding and a curl of paper as it was summarily destroyed. Two bodies were needed, but from where? The city morgue would likely have a better selection, but harder to get into. The hospital morgue however, was accessible. So many hospitals put an unlocked door near the morgue simply to make it easier when a corpse was to be transported. He'd learned that in New Orleans, the secret passed over pillows and with the taste of blood in his mouth.
He left the house and went to the nearest convenience store, a dim little place that had never seen a good day in its life, but that functioned nicely to give him a ballcap for himself and an extra for Chloe, a pair of sunglasses that looked comically like giant black bug eyes on his face to obscure his features further, and two prepaid cell phones. The white canisters at the front caught his eye and after a moment, he bought one of those too, cash only. His next stop was the bank, a quick in and out where he drained his bank accounts of all funds. It hardly mattered if they were both going to be dead soon; they were going to need it to survive in the days after.
And survive they would. He'd make sure of it. His last stop left him in the rear of the hospital, parked close to the morgue door as he cracked open the box on one of the phones and called Chloe.