Authors: Thomas Davidson
Rayne stuffed the phone back in her pocket, opened the dryer, quickly rummaged through the stranger’s clothes. Rayon, polyester, a synthetic sea of shirts and shorts. This was no time to try an item on, check the fit, check her reflection in the dryer’s window. Screw it. She found a…what was it? And would it bite? She pulled it out, a fisherwoman reeling in a trophy-sized fish. It was a navy blue and white…tablecloth, with swirling flowers and pom-pom trim.
Tim said, “And that’s…?”
“It’s what it is. It’s, I don’t know, a shawl, a disguise. It’s the Shroud of Turin with an image of C.C. Seymour on the front. You blind?”
“Matter of fact…”
“Can’t believe it’s come to this.” She folded it into a tight square, stuffed it under her tunic.
“Gee, ya think she’ll figure out who took it?”
“You got a better idea?”
“It’s a joke, Rayne. Maybe my last one before I’m shot in the back for resisting arrest.”
“That’s not funny. Don’t say that.”
Tim held his hands up. “Okay, okay.”
“Don’t even think it.”
Then she refocused—everything was happening at hyper speed—and remembered. She grabbed the cell from her pocket and tossed it into the dryer, onto the top of tangled clothes. “Best I can do. At least she gets something in return.”
“If she paid ten bucks for that tablecloth, she got ripped off.” Tim’s eyes flicked toward the window, back at Rayne. “Not a bad tradeoff. Don’t turn the dryer back on, it’ll fry the phone.”
Rayne did a quick fist pump in the air. “Let’s go, Mr. Crowe.”
In the fading light, they hustled across the asphalt lot. In the front seat of the LeSabre, Rayne folded the tablecloth in half to reduce the size, then put on her new
shawl
.
“How’s it look?”
“Move over Gisele Bundchen.”
“Well, it covers up the tunic. We need any advantage we can get.” She keyed the ignition. The engine whined and woke up.
“You look like Gisele Bundchen coming out of a homeless shelter.”
“This is supposed to be a disguise, not a freaking billboard.”
“If you’re a billboard, I’m a one-eyed pirate. We’re made for each other. Things can only go up from here.”
“My phone’s in a dryer. I’m wearing a tablecloth.”
“Rayne, listen.” From the shotgun seat, he reached over and drew her closer to him. “You could put on a paint-spattered drop cloth and look good.”
Her eyes flicked up. “Please.”
“Reason why, you have…let’s just call it an ‘edge.’ But you have it. You carry it wherever you go. And that’s what sets you apart. What you wear, don’t wear, doesn’t matter. Being with you is…ah…never boring. Give me that any day.”
A moment of silence.
“Boring,”
she replied, “does not quite describe the last two days.”
“I meant what I said.”
Rayne faced the windshield, gripped the steering wheel. Then she glanced at him with feigned boredom, her voice flat. “Wanna go for a ride?”
Tim buckled his seatbelt.
She hit the gas. Blasted off. They rocketed away from:
Coin Operated Fort
FORT LAUNDRY
Under Siege 7 Days
Rayne spotted her as they pulled into the nearly full parking lot. Martina Salgado stood beside her silver Volkswagen Tiguan, her pixie haircut getting combed by the wind. She looked like a model, wearing a hooded, single-breasted pea coat, tight jeans, and knee-high, brown leather boots. She was holding a white paper bag.
Rayne pulled up beside the divine Ms. Salgado and parked.
Martina opened the back door and climbed inside, behind Tim. “Holy shit, girl,” she said by way of greeting.
“I know.”
“Hey, blondie,” she said to Tim.
“Thanks for coming, Martina,” he said.
She handed him the bag. “I made a quick stop on the way over. Two fish sandwiches and coffees. Thought you might be hungry.”
“Perfect,” Tim said.
She leaned over the seat and kissed Rayne. “I’m ready. Shock me.”
“Martina, listen. Tim and I talked on the way over. We think it’s best to leave you out of this as much as possible. We don’t want to get you involved.”
Martina held up both hands as if standing in left field, about to catch a fly ball. “What? I’m in your car. I’m involved. What…is…up?”
Rayne half turned in the front, put her arm over the top of her seat. “There’s a new company called EyeSoar. They’re recently on the news. They make drones.”
“Drones.”
“Yeah, supposedly for the police and for private-sector security. By accident, Tim and I found out the drones are connected with some missing people who got killed. EyeSoar kept it undercover. No one else knows.”
“Except you two?”
“We think so, yeah, far as we know. So EyeSoar has to stop us in any way they can. They can’t let the story leak. Right now, they’re focused on making us look like…well, public enemies number one and two.”
Rayne filled in a few details while she ate.
“So what’re you gonna do?” Martina asked.
“Don’t know yet. We can barely keep up with what’s happening, everything’s moving so fast. But that video today, that’s a game-changer. Like, how do we explain it? We can’t even account for the last couple of days because we’ve been on the run.”
“And now,” Tim said, “they’ve got a filmed confession. So we’re guilty, no matter what happens from here. The next step for EyeSoar? We get killed or have an accident. The way things are going, maybe they’ll figure out a way to turn us into suicide bombers. I don’t rule out anything.”
“This is…I don’t know what to say.” Martina’s eyes widened. “I’m about to have a bladder malfunction.”
Tim nodded. “That sums it up.”
Rayne faced both of them. Beyond the windows, she saw a car pulling into the lot. She hoped it was just a shopper. “There’s a way out of this. We’ll figure it out. We just need to buy some time, lay low.”
“Here.” Martina took her smartphone from her purse, handed it to Rayne. “Take this, it’s better. I’ve got another here in my pocket that I just use for work.”
“Thanks. This is our link to the outside world.”
“Just one question, Rayne.”
“Yes?”
“Honey, why the hell you wearing a tablecloth?”
Rayne glanced down at her shoulders, seeing swirling flowers. “Is it that obvious?”
Martina fanned her face furiously with both hands, then turned to Tim. “Your girlfriend look like a table to you?”
“It’s a shawl,” he explained.
“Sure it is, Rayne Man. What’s wrong with you two? Get that shit off your shoulders, Rayne.”
“I saw myself on the flippin’ news. I’m wearing
these
clothes.
This
black tunic. I’m trying to cover it up. These clothes, my face, my hair.” Rayne paused, dropped her voice. “Yo! ‘Scuze me, girlie, you look familiar. I seen ya before, right?”
“Tablecloth,” Martina repeated, and shook her head no. “I’m gonna put this out on the deck in the daylight, where everyone can see it, don’t be mad. You’re probably the smartest girl I know, Rayne, but I gotta be honest. Sometimes you make no sense. You’re off in your little rainy world.”
“Meaning?”
Martina started taking off her clothes.
“What’s going on?” Tim asked.
“Don’t you be looking back here, blondie.” She shook off her coat, then knuckled Tim in the base of his neck. “Just messing with ya. We cool.”
“What’re you doing?” Rayne asked her.
“I can’t believe this. You got my phone. Now you’re gonna get my $200 camel-colored pea coat that I just bought from Macy’s cause it’s c-c-c-cold in November. And don’t you be getting any blood on this coat. You can’t wash that shit out. And no bullet holes, either, no nothing.”
“Blood,” Rayne echoed. She took off the tablecloth, then the tunic.
The pea coat flew into the front seat.
From the backseat: “God I hate to ask this. Did the local news show all your ass? Head to foot?”
“I guess, yeah. It did.” Rayne pitched the tunic into the backseat.
“See how much I love you, Rayne?” A zipping sound emanated from the backseat. “I’m givin’ up my boots. I surrender my shoes. Try ‘em on. They don’t fit, fling ‘em back.”
The left boot sailed into the front seat.
“Blondie, keep your eyes on the windshield. And your mind out of the gutter.”
The right boot followed the same trajectory.
“Tally up. Phone, coat, boots. Hmmm…what’s next? Maybe my mom’s wheels. You guys need that, too? I thought all white people were rich. We got this ass-backward. Uh oh…Rayne cracked a smile. Rayne, who swore she’d never laugh in her lifetime.”
“I do laugh,” Rayne said, tugging on a boot. “Now and then.”
“Sure you do. How they fit?”
“They do.”
“I was afraid of that. Now I’m out a pair of never-mind-how-much boots from thievin’ Neiman.”
Rayne donated her sneakers to the backseat.
“Actually, I could use a tablecloth,” Martina said. “Do you mind?”
“Here.” Rayne transferred it to the backseat.
Tim said, “Rayne, did the local news televise your underwear?”
From the backseat: “Ohhhh…blondie, blondie, blondie. I
so
see through you.”
“We should go. God, Martina, you’re the…” Rayne leaned over the seat and hugged her. “You’re a lifesaver. I can never—”
“Shut up before I change my mind. Follow me. My mom lives nearby. I keep a set of her keys at my apartment, so I’m set. I’ll park in front of her building, then take her car out of the garage in back.” Martina gave her the address.
“Okay,” Rayne said.
Martina popped the back door and stood outside. She leaned by Tim’s window and knuckled the glass. He rolled the window down.
“Look at me, I’m Rayne Moore.” She tugged on the black tunic with one hand while holding the folded tablecloth, and lifted a foot to display a sneaker. She leaned down and looked at them. “If I’m smiling, it’s because I’m nervous as hell. This is serious. You guys gotta get out of this. Rayne, I said you were smart. Now prove it.”
“Yes,” Rayne said.
Martina tapped the rooftop twice with her hand, then got into her car.
Rayne and Tim followed her out of the parking lot and onto Memorial Drive. Rayne’s headlights shone on Martina’s VW, including her rear bumper sticker,
PMS meter high
. They could see Martina’s head and shoulders through her rear windshield. Friday evening traffic was heavy, kick-starting the weekend.
“I can’t believe she put that on her bumper,” Tim said. “Maybe it creates an invisible force field that deters tailgating.”
“P…M…S,” Rayne said sowly. “Prefer…My…Solitude. Except EyeSoar is giving me wicked cramps and headaches. I’m gonna go off, Tim, I’m getting real close.”
“You and me both.”
Rayne saw Martina raise her right hand to her ear. Seconds later, music sounded in the Buick’s front seat. Inside Rayne’s pocket, the opening notes to Cyndi Lauper’s
Girls Just Want to Have Fun
. She reached for the borrowed phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“Rayne, the strangest thing just happened.”
“What’s up?”
“Up? You are so right. My hood ornament. My hood ornament is like…up.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me neither. Because, like, I don’t have a hood ornament. Not that I remember, unless I’m crazy. Maybe you guys freaked me out.”
“Martina, what’s going on?” Rayne squeezed the phone, heard Martina inhale deeply. She saw the VW wiggle slightly on Memorial Drive in the fading twilight, then decelerate. An intersection with traffic lights came into view.
“I’m driving, and I see a hood ornament suddenly go…there’s this little piece of metal…it just like…I don’t know…it rose up from my hood. And it…wait, we got to turn here.”
The VW banged a left onto Brookline Street.
Rayne followed the PMS-mobile.
Martina said, “It kind of…it was like flying by my windshield.”
“Listen carefully,” Rayne said. She focused on their location, and what large buildings were nearby. Micro Center, an electronics store, only had one entrance. A really large building with multiple exits was needed. “Change in plans. We’ve got to switch this up. Don’t go to your mother’s yet. Go to MIT. We’re only a mile away. Park close to the campus. Then go into MIT, the big main building off Mass Ave. Go inside and walk all the way through it, then leave through an exit on the other side of the campus. Stay alert. See if you’re being followed by anything that...well…looks like that hood ornament. Anything that looks like a flying bug.”
“Bug? Jesus, Rayne.”
Panic Meter High
, Rayne thought. But she couldn’t blame Martina; she herself was hanging onto Planet Earth by her fingernails.
“I know,” Rayne said. “If anything is flying overhead, a drone, it can see you enter the building, but it won’t know where you exit, which door. There must be doors all over that complex. And there’s students and faculty going in and out the doors, so you’ve got some cover. Let’s see, how about when you walk out of the back end of MIT, go straight to the subway entrance. The Kendall stop is right across the street.”
“I know where it is.”
“Take the train to Central Square. It’s only one stop, but it’ll get you out of the area unseen and back near your mom’s.”
“I got an idea,” Martina said. She sounded refreshed, encouraged by the impromptu plan, dialing down the panic meter a notch. “I’ll walk into MIT wearing your black tunic. I’ll walk out wearing the tablecloth shawl and head to the train. All sorts of crazies are down in the subway. I’ll blend right in.”
“Good idea, M. Perfect.”
“Rayne, this drone stuff is making me real nervous. Period. Point blank.”
“Me too. And I’m really sorry for dragging you into our mess. I screwed up, I didn’t think ahead. I should’ve—”
“Shut up, Rayne. You owe me only one favor. You and blondie get out of this in one piece. Remember, you owe me that. And tell blondie I think he’s okay.”
“Will do. He’ll be thrilled.”
Rayne, following the VW, saw Martina move her right hand away from her ear and, with a touch of bravado, punch the air over the dashboard, then get back on the phone.
“Thanks, M. Call me when you get to the subway.”
“What’re you guys gonna do?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Be careful.
Real
careful.”
Rayne dialed down her panic meter, feigned confidence and said, “See you soon.”
Then she turned left on the next street, needing to put some distance between their two cars. She replaced the phone into her pocket.
“I have an idea,” Tim said.
“Good. Because right now I’ve got zero ideas.”
“This Buick is filthy. Let’s go to a car wash.”