One thing’s for sure — I’m not taking any more of Mom’s mouth. I mean it, she starts talking me down, I’ll walk away. I
am
somebody, no matter what she says. How I wish I could throw the truth in her face.
Today Bryson Hanley showed me how much of
a Somebody I am.
Tony was headed toward Moscow on Highway 95 when his “Barry” cell phone rang. He checked the ID.
All right.
He snapped the phone open. “Tell me something good.”
“I found her.”
Bingo.
“You sure?”
“Positive. Car and license are right, and I got a visual on her.”
“Where is she?”
“Headed west on Highway 8 toward Pullman, not far from Moscow. I think she’s on to me. I followed her at the turnoff for the Moscow-Pullman airport, right up to the building, but she passed it by. Went all the way back to 8 and kept going.”
Not far from Moscow.
Where on earth had she stayed?
Didn’t matter now. Tony could already feel the knife in his hands.
“Hold on a minute.” He punched buttons on the Durango’s GPS. Eyes flicking between road and monitor, he studied the map. “Looks like in Pullman she can turn south on 27 or north on 195.” Either way, didn’t matter. Once he saw which direction she was going, he’d find a way to head her off.
Bad move, stopping
for the night, Miss Wit. You could have been in Oregon by now.
“Can you keep on her?”
“As long as I don’t get called off on something.”
“Good. Let me know if she turns. I’m not that far away; I’ll catch up soon. If you’re called off I need to hear about it.”
“Will do.”
Tony dropped the phone on his lap and pushed his foot to the accelerator.
Bailey scrubbed Java Joint’s long counter as if her life depended on it. Wilbur, Jake, Bev and Angie, and the rest of the morning crowd were gone. Only S-Man remained, typing away on his manuscript. In the silence — save for the
tap, tap
of computer keys — Bailey’s imagination ran wild. She’d called Carla’s realty office twice — only to be told Carla still had not shown. The second time the receptionist’s voice bulged with impatience. “We don’t know
where
she is. Now she’s missed an appointment to show houses. If you hear from her, Bailey,
please
tell her to get in here.”
Missed an appointment to show houses
. That wasn’t Carla. Absolutely not. Something was very wrong. But what could Bailey do? Carla had never talked to her in such anger. She was brassy, yes, but never mean. And even the sarcasm she was known for had never been aimed at Bailey. Wilbur was more her kind of target — but then, he purposely pushed her buttons.
Bailey rinsed out her cloth, sprayed unneeded cleaner on the cash register, and wiped it down too.
And that phone call this morning. Who was Ellie, and what did she want? Why was Carla so dead set against talking to her?
Questions, questions, and no answers. Just plenty of wild imaginings, all of them sending shivers down Bailey’s back. She wanted to call her husband, John. Spill all her fears to him. But this was his naptime, and he’d had a difficult night
. The latest medication he’d begun taking for his epilepsy was causing some bad side effects. She couldn’t disturb his sleep now.
Bailey sighed.
The tapping stopped. S-Man looked up from his computer, and his dark gaze locked with hers. His bushy eyebrows slowly relaxed, the blank expression in his eyes clearing. She must have sighed more loudly than she’d realized to pull him out of his Saurian world.
He leaned back in his chair. Blinked twice. “What’s up?”
Fondness and gratitude surged through Bailey. Ted, for all his odd creative spirit and seeming distance from reality, was in fact one of the smartest, most down-to-earth people she knew. Sometimes, because of his very creativity and constant thoughts of characterization, he picked up on things others couldn’t see. Six months ago, the whole town had learned that surprising truth.
And six months ago, a few of the Java Joint crowd who’d bothered to notice had learned something more startling. At thirty-one, quiet, laconic science fiction writer Ted Dawson was in love with outgoing, ambitious Leslie Brymes, ten years his junior.
Now
that
would make an interesting couple.
Bailey dropped the cleaning cloth, wiped her hands on a towel. She stepped around the front counter and across the café, pulled out the chair opposite Ted, and sank into it. He watched her with mild patience.
Suddenly Bailey didn’t quite know what to say.
S-Man folded his arms. “You’re worried about Carla.”
Bailey managed a little smile. She should have known, for all apparent focus on his writing, he’d sensed her nervousness. “I sure am.” She started talking, and soon told him everything —the call from Ellie, how angry Carla had been, that she was still missing.
S-Man rubbed his forehead. “Doesn’t sound good.”
Bailey waited for more feedback, perhaps some thought she hadn’t considered. But Ted merely refolded his arms. She suppressed another sigh. Sometimes his terseness left a few things to be desired. “So talk to me, Ted. What should I do?”
His gaze wandered over her shoulder toward the front windows. He drew a long breath, as if gathering his thoughts, his focus remaining in the distance. “When you write a scene where a character is, say, frightened, you’re not supposed to just
tell
the reader she’s scared. You’re supposed to show it. And sometimes — actually many times — what a character
says
isn’t really what she
means
. It’s called subtexting. The meaning’s underneath the words and actions.” His eyes returned to Bailey. “You with me?”
Quite a long speech for Ted. “I think so.”
He nodded slowly. “You said Carla sounded mad on the phone. Telling you not to call her again. Doesn’t sound like her. Neither does missing appointments. My guess is, she wasn’t really mad. She was scared.”
She’d almost said as much. But of what? That was the question.
Bailey focused on S-Man’s biggie cup, no doubt empty long ago. “Carla practically even accused me of gossiping too much, which she knows I don’t do. She told me to quit spending so much time on the phone.”
S-Man rubbed beneath his chin. His eyes pulled toward the phone sitting near the back of the counter. For a long moment he frowned at it. Then he pushed away from the table and stood. With the permanent limp that favored his once broken leg, he crossed toward the counter and reached for the wireless receiver. Examined it.
He looked toward Bailey. “Got a small screwdriver?”
She pushed to her feet, a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue. She bit them back. Ted would talk whe
n he was ready. “Yes, in the office.” She hurried down the short rear hall and into her small office to fetch the tool. Back at the counter she handed it to Ted, then stood aside to watch, lacing and unlacing her fingers.
Ted inserted the end of the screwdriver between the outside plastic cover pieces of the receiver and lifted one off. Pulled out the set’s small microphone and held it up. Turned it over.
His expression darkened. He gave his head a quick shake, as if surprised by what he’d found. Then laid the microphone on the counter, facedown, and pointed to it. “See this?”
Bailey’s heart picked up speed. Already, she could guess. She drew near to look.
“It’s not the microphone that came with this unit. This is an RF transmitter, a phone bug. Works when you’re on the line. A low-end listening device. Easy and cheap to install, and easy enough to find, if you’re looking for it. But hard to trace back to whoever put it here.”
Bailey’s eyes widened. She stared at the thing — small in size, huge in meaning — her mouth agape. This could not be happening. “But what . . . why?”
Ted considered the device, his wide lips pressed. “You let any customer who’s a stranger use this phone lately?”
Bailey tried to think. “No.”
He tapped his thumb against the Formica. His unassuming manner only frazzled Bailey all the more. This wasn’t some
novel
he was writing — this was real life.
Her
life.
Ted pushed away from the counter. “Guess we’d better check the extension in your office.”
A minute later, standing by her cluttered desk, Ted held another bug in his large fingers.
Two.
This was too much. Bailey’s mind reeled. Why her, why Java Joint? She leaned against the wall, a hand to her forehead. How long had these things been in her phone
? Had someone been listening to every call? “I just don’t . . . I can’t understand how they could have gotten here.”
Ted pushed his bottom lip up, scrunching his chin. “Somebody must have broken in at night. Did a good job of it — without leaving a trace. This device” — he gestured toward the bug — “is simple enough for anyone to use. But getting in and out of here undetected — not so simple.”
“But why would anyone want to tap my phone?”
“My guess?” Ted spread his hands. “Given the timing, it’s about Carla. Someone is on to her about something —something big enough to make her disappear for awhile. That someone rightly guessed that she’d be talking to you by phone. Maybe a Scenes and Beans reader. Knows Carla’s in here every day and would be missed.” A flicker of new thought moved across his face. His gaze fell to a small pile of papers on Bailey’s desk. “Which would mean maybe he — or she — did this last night.”
Bailey blinked. This was too much to assimilate all at once. “How do you know about phone bugs?”
S-Man lifted a shoulder. “Used to read spy novels when I was a teenager.”
Bailey gave a sage nod, as if this explanation and everything else that had happened today made ultimate sense. As if her life remained in perfect order.
Lord, please show me what to do. I’m
drowning here.
Ted closed his fingers over the bugging device. “You’ll need to put the regular microphones in so you can use your phone. In the meantime you should call Chief Edwards on your cell. He may want to do a sweep of this whole place. Doubt he’ll find anything else. But you never know.”
The sound of footsteps filtered from the front of the café. Java Joint’s lunch crowd was about to begin. “Hey, Bailey?” a male voice called. “Anybody home?”
Normal life summoned. No matter what had just happened, no matter the fear that beat through her veins, Bailey had to pull herself together. “Coming!”
She fetched her purse from beneath her desk and fished out her cell phone. Thrust it toward S-Man. “Here.” Her voice trembled. “Call the chief for me. Tell him what’s going on. I’ve got sandwiches to make.”
Not until Bailey was striding back toward the counter, a smile pinned on her face, did two realizations hit her. One, the call from “Ellie” had been tapped. And two, until those microphones were replaced, the woman wouldn’t be able to call back.
Carla could hardly think straight. All the way into Pullman, the trooper stayed behind her. She gripped the steering wheel, her muscles riveted into place. Her ankle throbbed, her head pounded, and her stomach writhed with dread. In the downtown area she had to decide which direction to go, north or south. Impulsively she turned right for Highway 195 going to Spokane. If she could lose the trooper somewhere along the way, she could go to the Spokane airport, get a rental car there.
The trooper turned with her.
Soon she was beyond Pullman. A sign read “Spokane, 73 miles.” The terrain rolled into gentle hills, the road narrowing to one way each direction. With the trooper behind her, the miles seemed interminable. Carla’s muscles hardened to stone. The world shrank — to her car and his, and the open, treacherous road. She couldn’t outrun the trooper, didn’t dare push the speed limit, or he’d pull her over. Couldn’t stop and ask anyone for help.
She should have gone to Chief Edwards when she had the chance. He was one person in law enforcement she
knew
she could trust. Stupid,
stupid
.
Carla glanced in the rearview mirror. The trooper was on his cell phone again.
A tear of fright and rage dropped down her cheek. She pictured Bryson Hanley, victorious in the 2008 elec
tion, smiling wife and children at his side. The roaring crowds in the great hall, the confetti and music. She imagined him kissing his wife, hugging his son and daughter. His beautiful, young daughter —almost the very age Carla had been when he’d taken her to his cabin. Yes, she had been old enough to know better, but how much more was he to blame. All charm and suave he’d been to a girl looking to be Somebody. Look what he’d brought her to now.
Carla slowed for a twenty-five miles per hour speed limit and entered the town of Colfax. Population 2,880, according to the sign. Almost three thousand people. If only one could help her. The downtown area was small, with old, redbrick buildings. She passed a United Church of Christ — “Where God Still Speaks.”
Deep longing rose in Carla. If only God would speak to her.
The town faded in her rearview mirror, the hated car still following. The next sign for Spokane read fifty-eight miles. Was the trooper going to follow her the whole way? She’d never last that long. Her body and brain would flat-out break down.
Flashing lights in the mirror wrenched Carla’s eyes. She checked the trooper’s car — and sucked in a breath. He was pulling her over.
I’m learning the meaning of
suave
. Two weeks ago, I hadn’t even heard the word.
“Suave” is Bryson at the office, treating me all businesslike in front of everybody, never letting on what happens behind closed doors. “Suave” is Bryson when his wife came in today. Mrs. My-Husband in the flesh. Who’s obviously not doing a very good job keeping her husband happy.
“Suave” is me talking to her all innocent, asking about her day. “Suave” is me with my friends, and with Scott. Acting normal, happy. It’s become routine now. The more times Bryson and I manage to be together (we’ve found a spot I can walk to, and he picks me up to take me to his cabin — I just have to scrunch down in the seat until we get there), the bigger secret I have to keep. And the more times I’m with him, the more I love him. I tell him that, and he always smiles. I know he loves me too. I can tell by the way he treats me when we’re together.