Authors: Lane Tracey
Chapter 15
I’m so grateful this hominid hasn’t yet reproduced his sadly defective DNA, I could weep. He’s undeniably antediluvian, with his ape-like brows, ridiculously long arms, underslung jaw, and grunts for answers. But such musings detract from my current efforts of extracting information from said throwback. Such tedious work. A far less patient man than I would have killed him by now.
“Go over everything from the beginning.” I speak to him as I would a deaf elder, loudly, exaggerating each syllable. He stares at me as though he doesn’t comprehend a word. Oh, Lord, let me shoot him between the eyes now. “Well, speak, man!” He jumps a foot in the air, as if I’ve goosed him.
“What?” he manages one, guttural utterance.
“Tell—me—what—happened—two—days—ago.” This is absurdly difficult. Where is my squeezy ball? My breathing has become quite ragged.
“I already did.” He seems to almost snort at my ludicrous request to repeat his story.
Rage makes my head feel as if it is going to explode. My groping fingers find my Glock instead of the squeezy ball in my desk. Sweet temptation floods my body like lust. My hand grips the gun, delighting in its hardness. The point of no return is nearing when reason slaps me in the face. I still need this simian half-wit.
“Tell me again!” I bellow, frustrated at not being able to blow his fool head off.
“OK, OK. You don’t have to yell at me.” He actually acts as if he has hurt feelings. I would laugh if it wouldn’t burst more blood vessels. “I went on shift at the lab at eleven p.m. as usual. The other two security guards who are usually on with me were there, too.” His tiny, rodent eyes dart around the room.
“I’m thirsty.” Attention span of a guppy, this man.
“Bottled water on the cart.”
“So, anyway, so I wait until I have rotation near
Dr. Van Clief’s office, like you said to do. Wait, wait, first I go to the guy watching everything on the cameras and I spill my soda on him. When he goes to clean up, I unplug everything.” As if thoroughly satisfied with his brilliance, the guard chugs his water and crushes the plastic bottle.
“You were supposed to disable only the camera that monitored
Dr. Van Clief’s office area.” My temples are throbbing.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t have a lot of time, you know,” he added, defensively. If he had an entire decade, he couldn’t figure it out.
“Go on.” It takes a yeoman’s effort to keep myself under control.
“Right, yeah,
so, anyway, I go to her office, unlock it with my keys, and search it like you said to do. I look everywhere you said to look. There’s nothing like you described. So, I take the CPU from the computer and I’m halfway back to my locker, when the new guard catches me with it.” The guard’s up, headed back for the cart, making himself thoroughly at home. He settles in a chair this time before sucking noisily on the water like a baby at his mother’s breast.
“Did you say anything at all?” My tone is quiet and I’m watching his body language carefully for any signs of dissembling.
“Not a word. I clammed up. Called the number you had me memorize. A short guy bailed me out. Took him long enough.” He sniffs as one long-suffering.
My expertise, although fairly vast, does not include the detection of liars. Even so, it is plain to see this man is no liar. I relax and smile benevolently at him.
However, he is hopelessly stupid and incredibly ugly. He’s also a liability. I take my Glock out and shoot him in the throat.
The aim is a bit awkward because the dolt sat to my left, making me nervous about shooting over my Katani sword and perhaps marring it. But, as usual, my aim is perfect. He was sucking on his water, so his head was back, beautifully exposing his throat. Water spurted out of the wound. A novelty for me.
The only thing that kept me in control as he was speaking earlier was fantasizing about his death now and how I was going to kill him. I opted for a bet with myself on how long it would take for him to drown in his blood from being shot in the throat. It kept me so calm. It was better than my squeezy ball.
Well, it’s time to watch him. Oh, the eyes are still so bright with surprise. But now they’re fading. Oh so slowly. And what strange sounds you are making. Odd, it’s difficult to keep my mind from wandering. I keep thinking about the Van Clief girl. She’s putting me at such risk. It’s her fault I hired this idiot to steal what she probably has
the only other copy of. I got too desperate waiting for her to be found.
The guard is gurgling and making unearthly noises, but my brain only half-registers the sounds. This is how I want her to die. Drowning, slowly, painfully, with me watching. With her watching me watch.
Finally, he’s quiet, and I see only myself reflected in his eyes. Not as satisfying as my fantasy promised. No use seeing how long he took to die. The fun is over. Reality rushes in as the metallic smell of blood assaults my nose. It has pooled on my new carpet and spilled onto my Brazilian cherry wood floor. The man was huge and is leaking enormous amounts of blood. I really must stop killing people in my home. Although there are trusted people who can make them disappear, I take an immense risk every time I indulge myself like this. It’s the Van Clief girl’s fault. She’s unraveling me.
Her father started it. Im
agine, locking me out of his dead wife’s lab when I was his business partner, making me hire this dead ape on the floor. But, Van Clief’s paid dearly, now, hasn’t he? And, now his daughter will, too. My housekeeper’s voice comes over the intercom, making me jump. “Ms. Wilcox has arrived.” Oh, joy.
“Send her up, please.” Stepping carefully around the untidy patches, I ready the room for the tracker’s arrival. Although it pains me to have her back in my haven, better here than choking to death on food elsewhere. Besides, let the dead man serve as a warning to her about what happens if she steps out of line with me.
“Amusing yourself again, Howard?” My head snaps up, startled to hear the tracker’s voice so near. Her portly presence fills the doorway, offending my eyes with her attire of a blazing fuchsia dress and biker boots. She wears a self-satisfied expression, as though she’s cracked a hilarious joke about my having killed a second person.
“Not as amusing as I thought it would be,” I admit with heartfelt regret. “And I assure you, his IQ is exactly the same now as it was before.”
There is no evidence that she is listening, as she is looking around the room for my Louis XIV chair, which I prudently removed before her arrival. Not to despair, there’s plenty of Scotch waiting in compensation. Good, she’s headed for the everyday chair that has replaced the antique piece. But, what’s she doing now? She’s dragging over the matching Louis XIV side table with inlaid marquetry to put her drink on. And, oh, Jesus, no! She’s stomping through the blood to fetch everything. Gun or squeezy ball? This decision really presents a dilemma because the only thing Rita Wilcox has been good at tracking so far has been blood across my carpet.
“Tell me you have something to report.” My squeezy ball is nearly smoking from the vicious compressions it’s undergoing. Rita has finally settled herself in the chair, arranged the
Scotch decanter on the side table to her satisfaction, and is blissfully guzzling her drink.
“Can’t find her.” You can’t fault the woman for wordiness.
“Obviously. Pray tell why not.” Next to my virility, my patience is my greatest source of pride.
“I have only two people on this right now. The more people you have working on this, the more risk
—and expense—you assume. These two people have had to canvass four cities, which they’ve done admirably. No one admits to having seen her. Someone is lying.” Seemingly exhausted by this speech, Rita flicks the arm cover from the chair and mops her brow and neck. She then gives her body a mighty heave out of the chair, claws the ice bucket from the cart, plops it on my precious side table, and proceeds to mix a drink like a honky-tonk barkeep.
Protests die on my lips. I will kill her one day. I will.
“What’s your plan?” Really, all the killing and this woman’s vulgarity have done me in.
“I will have to see to things, personally.” She draws herself up regally, an effect ruined by her ice-chewing and Harley boots.
“We can all relax, then.” But, the sarcasm is apparently lost on the tracker or she’s not listening because she’s lapsed into a semi-trance. At the moment, she’s alternating between mole-licking and lip-pumping, double-time. Her brain must be on fire with planning. “Rita!” I roar, fearing I may lose my breakfast if forced to watch her facial contortions further.
“Oh, yes,” she says, coming to. “I was just thinking, I’ve always thought the most likely locations are Las Vegas or Los Angeles. I would like to start with Las Vegas.”
“Rationale,” I snap, hoping to keep her focused.
“Originally, I was leaning toward Los Angeles, specifically around the Venice
Beach area. LA and Orange County beach lifestyle are so glamorized currently, I thought it would attract a girl on the run. Lots of area to get lost in.” She takes a thoughtful slug of her Scotch and smacks her lips. “But, now, I’m thinking Las Vegas. To her, it may seem easier to get her hands on fake identification. Smaller, less overwhelming. And I just have a feeling.”
“What a needle in a haystack finding this girl is,” I say, exasperated to the core. “She may be in Phoenix or Austin or Salt Lake City. Or, our theory may be completely wrong and she may be in some small town. And, for God’s sake, we cannot be guided by your hunches.” Even though it’s still shy of noon, I push back from my desk, walk carefully around the dead man to the liquor cart, and pour myself a stiff drink.
The tracker raises her glass in a toast. I ignore her and sit back down. She mumbles, “Cheers,” and drains her glass. How many is that? Four? The eyelids will be going half-mast soon.
“No, it’s Las Vegas or Los Angeles,” the tracker insists, busy making herself another drink. “If we’re wrong, we’ll systematically go through the other possibilities. But I’m not wrong.”
Rita’s bleary eyes, magnified by her glasses, meet mine. Her gaze is unflinching. My mind returns to our last meeting at the restaurant and how unsettling it was not to be able to read her expression. Something tells me it would be wise not to underestimate this woman. I finish my drink in one gulp and close my eyes to think. Silly me, to think I could actually concentrate with her slurping, chewing ice, and belching like a truck driver.
“OK. But I’d like you to go to Los Angeles first. I agree with your assessment about why it would attract a girl on the run. That is a stronger argument than the one you present for Las Vegas, your ‘feeling’ notwithstanding.” It may be my imagination, but it seems her thin lips are set into even more of a grim line than before. “Will you have to retrace all the steps your men have taken?”
“No,” she says, her frog mouth definitely turned down at the corners. “They’ve screened out several locations and narrowed it down to just a few.” My brain barely takes this in, though, because it’s busy doing a reality-check. My eyes think they saw her sneakily lift a butt cheek off her chair a bit and set it back down. Time will tell. “But, I do have to tell you, I think you’re wasting time sending me to Los Angeles. I think the Van Clief girl is in Las Vegas.”
My brain was in the process of shaping a rebuttal when it was overtaken by a cloud of noxious fumes. I’ve bolted out of my chair and grabbed the air fre
shener off the shelf with lightning-fast reflexes. I doubt I would respond so quickly to a radiation leak from a nuclear power plant. I’ve never smelled anything like this and I’ve smelled plenty of dead things. Really, what does the woman eat? The tracker looks completely unperturbed at my manic spraying.
“Sorry, Howard. I get nervous at the thought of flying.” Odd, she looks calmer than the man on the floor. Then, as though she can read my mind, “You can’t kill me. You need me.” Her mouth tics spastically at the corner. She’s cracking herself up.
“And when I no longer need you?” I ask, not being able to resist.
“Oh, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” She doesn’t sound worried, which worries me. I watch her warily as she hoists her weight out of the chair and, without a glance at me, stomps from the room, mouth still ticking
.
Chapter 16
The only downside to the past few weeks with Victor is my friends feel neglected and that bothers me. Lily and Jennifer didn’t notice my absence at first. Their parents visited, one after the other, keeping them fully occupied. But when their families left and I was always busy, they wondered what was going on. Tink could never go out either, so they figured the two of us were getting together and not including them. Lily confronted me about it. I just apologized without telling her the whole story.
Even right now, guilt is written plainly on my face in the mirror. It’s an hour before the show and hardly anyone is in the dressing room. Why not just tell Lily that I’m with Victor?
Because she’s too close to Jennifer
. And what’s Tink been doing? It’s a good thing we’re going out tonight so I can talk to her.
These random thoughts are filling my head as I automatically go through the routine of putting on make-up. It takes several moments to realize that someone is standing behind me. My eyes travel up from my reflection to meet the intent stare of Jennifer. A smile stops before it reaches my lips when I see her look isn’t friendly.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Savannah,” she begins, her tone as cold as her expression.
“Mmhmm?” I go back to applying eyeliner.
Uh oh, here we go
.
“Lily thinks you were with Tink all those times we wanted to go out and you weren’t around. But, I was wondering, was it maybe Vic you were with instead of Tink?” Jennifer asks with a smile that doesn’t reach her narrowed eyes. “Lily thinks I’m being silly because she says Vic is too old for you,” she adds, nastily.
I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. The age thing again. Several beats of awkward silence pass as I struggle to control my emotions.
“Jennifer, you’re being ridiculous. It’s none of your business who I’ve been with,” I say, too loud, as usual. Several heads turn in our direction, ears tuned for a fight. Embarrassed, I get up and head down the line of girls, trying to escape the dressing room. Jennifer is right behind me.
“So I’m right. You were with him,” she says in front of everyone before we’re out the door.
I whirl on her, brandishing the eyeliner still clutched in my fingers. “I didn’t say that. I said it’s none of your business who I’m with!” It’s a mystery why I still want to be friends with this girl. But the thought of losing any one of my friends hurts in a way I can’t explain.
“I’ve told you to stay away from him!” she yells, her voice hoarse, face contorting. The other dancers are silent, staring. I nearly run from the room. She follows me down the hall toward the boys’ dressing room. Ian is headed our way.
“They can probably hear you guys out in the house,” he says cheerfully, implying that even the audience is listening in on our fight. He intercepts Jennifer, holds her in a bear hug, and talks soothingly to her as I rush back to the dressing room. The other dancers watch me as I grab my lipstick and costume and head for the other dressing room to share Tink’s space. Jennifer needs time away from me to cool off.
Tink and Lily distract me with chatter I only half-listen to until the ten-minute call. Tink’s mood seems especially light. She talks nonstop until we take our places on the stage. Jennifer is just a few feet from my position. She ignores me.
I’m so busy worrying about our fight that it takes me completely by surprise when the music swells, the curtain goes up and the house is…empty. Well, not entirely empty.
Two well-dressed men are sitting dead center. Security is at every entrance and within ten feet of the main guests. Victor is one of the security guards. My breath catches and my heart pounds harder, typical of whenever I first see him. His lips curve and he gives me a subtle wink before shifting his gaze elsewhere in the room. I understand. He’s on duty and mustn’t be ogling one of the dancers.
I know my part of the performance so well now that I can dance and be thinking of other things. For example, I’m smiling, kicking, and turning with enthusiasm while thinking that one of the men seems a lot more important than the other. The skinny one defers to the bald one. He nods his head emphatically when Baldy talks. Baldy never looks at the skinny one. The bald one has jewelry on and waves his hand imperiously from time to time.
Is he staring at me with his piggy eyes?
A shudder of revulsion runs down my back. For some warped reason
, I imagine his arms around me, his sausage fingers stroking my skin. A second later, I realize my smile has wilted. My expression must reflect my repulsion. He stops looking at me. His eyes now seem to be fixed on Tink. Yes, no doubt about it. He’s watching Tink intently. Near the end of the number, he switches to a willowy dancer who looks like a teenage version of that country western singer whose name escapes me. Weird how he doesn’t watch the whole show, but watches specific girls. Creepy.
For the entire hour and forty-five minute show, Baldy repeats his pattern of examining the same five or so girls. Others notice, as Tink and I are teased relentlessly between numbers.
“Who is that bald guy?” I ask the girl next to me in the dressing room, grabbing my costume pieces from Josie for a quick change. Josie is uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Not her usual, cheerful self. I make a mental note to talk to her later.
“I don’t know. Word is some rich overseas businessman. They say he bought out the house a month in advance. Crazy.” She flashes me a big grin and adds, “He sure likes
you
.”
“Lucky me,” I say, the sarcasm apparent.
The performers aren’t the only ones to notice the businessman’s preferences. Victor’s face might seem expressionless tonight to others. But I see a tightening around his jaw that betrays tension, and maybe anger.
Another face in the scant audience captures my attention. Liam’s return after so many weeks stirs ambivalent feelings in me. He stands statue-like toward the back of the theat
er. His glorious golden head turns occasionally to watch the movement onstage, the lowered house lights glancing dully off his glass eyes. I can’t help but contrast his eyes to Victor’s which, even without benefit of bright light, are sparkling dangerously now.
At the show’s end, relief makes me skip lightly down the stairs toward the dressing room. I’m happy to be free from the bald man’s merciless appraisal
– at least that’s what it felt like he was doing. Whatever it was, it made Victor tense and me uneasy.
I almost miss my name being whispered behind me, but my ears are attuned to his voice.
“Bonita,” he says, melting me as always with the way he says it. “Follow me.”
Anywhere
, I want to say, but silently follow him back up the steps to a deserted storage room backstage. He closes the door and immediately folds me in his arms. His grip on me is so tight my lungs struggle for air. He stands so still for so long just holding me that it starts to freak me out.
“I want to hold you and protect you and keep you safe forever,” he finally says. Then he moves one hand up to the back of my neck and applies gentle pressure until my lips are on his. When he moves away a little and puts my face between his hands, the look in his eyes scares me.
“Victor, what’s wrong?” His face changes immediately at my tone. He transforms from the intense, scary Victor to the charismatic, sparkly Victor.
“Nothing, Bonita. It’s nothing. I’m just overreacting. Forget it.” His eyes compel me to accept what he says. “I just wanted to hold you in my arms once tonight because I’ll be working very late and won’t see you until tomorrow. That’s all.” He then shuts off all protest or thought with a kiss so deep and pass
ionate, my knees buckle when he walks out the door moments later.
All the way to the dressing room, I ponder Victor’s strange behavior. What did he mean about protecting me and keeping me safe? From what?
We haven’t talked yet about my feelings of being hunted. In fact, neither of us has mentioned my safety since that day at the Motel 6. He’s got to be worried about something else. I shake my head, confused.
Once back at my station, I peel off my costume and hand it to Josie, who takes it absentmindedly.
“Are you OK” I ask her, concerned by how quiet she is. She seemed all right before the show, but she’s not herself now.
“Just a bit worried, honey,” she says, a frown line appearing between her eyes. She starts to say something then stops and just looks at me. “I’d like to talk to you about it, but now is not the time.”
That’s mysterious. I reluctantly say, “OK,” wishing she would talk to me while not wanting to force it. She busies herself with costume clean-up. I get ready to go out with my friends. My show make-up comes off easily with cream and some scrubbing. That’s better. The person in the mirror looks more real. She looks like…me. My mind keeps going over the strange behavior of Victor and Josie. The whole night’s been weird. Who’s ever heard of doing an entire performance for one person? It must have jinxed the evening.
The last of the dancers are quickly clearing out of the dressing room. A quick chec
k in the mirror tells me my make- up is just right and my skirt is on straight. Across the room, Jennifer gets ready and continues to ignore me. Just as the silence in the near-empty room is getting awkward, Tink and Lily come clacking into the room, laughing loudly. Between bouts of giggles, it becomes obvious they’re laughing about the bald guy.
“He wanted you so bad, Savannah,” Lily says in a husky voice. Her eyes are starting to tear up because she’s laughing so hard. I throw a lip gloss at her and it hits her on the boob. She just laughs harder.
“He wanted Tink worse.” I find myself giggling, too. They’re so worked up.
“I’ll fight you for him,
wench,” Tink says, grabbing my hair and yanking my head from side-to-side.
We go on like this all the way out to our cars. Tink and I ride together in my Z4 as usual. We all meet at a
locals’ club popular for people eighteen and over. The place is packed. A lot of dancers from our show are there as well as entertainers from the other shows in town. Everybody seems to be in a great mood and full of energy. Even Jennifer is all smiles.
Ian has somehow gotten us a large booth right next to the dance floor. He pulls me with him to the center of the floor as soon as we arrive. He’s a very good dancer. I find myself responding to the pulsing beat and letting go as we dance through song after song.
The floor is body-to-body and I’m soon sweating through my clothes. The music changes to a slow beat and I want to sit down to cool off, but Ian pulls me firmly to him. One hand is on the small of my back and the other is on the back of my neck. He massages my neck with two fingers and then runs them down to the part of my back between my shoulder blades. There, he spreads his hand and pushes my back so my breasts are pressing against him. He buries his face in my hair and sighs.
“Savannah, I
—” he begins.
But I’ve grown uncomfortable. It feels funny to be in someone else’s arms. I don’t want to mislead Ian.
“Ian,” I interrupt, “I would really love a drink.” He holds me for a moment longer then wordlessly lets me go and heads off in the direction of the bar. My heart feels heavy. I’m afraid I’ve hurt him.
Still worrying, some of my attention diverts to my feet aching in my too-tall heels. I slip them from my feet and pad off the dance floor. Tink is the only other person in our booth. I’m grateful to get my mind off Ian when she gives me the lead-in I’ve been hoping for.
“Did you see Liam in the back of the theater tonight?” Tink’s voice goes all breathless when she says his name.
“Yeah, I haven’t seen him for ages,” I say, hoping that’s enough to get her to say more.
“He was out of town on business for a while.”
Damn. That’s all she’s going to say.
“Actually, I haven’t seen a lot of you, either.” I feel a little bad for saying this because I am equally guilty for spending all my time with Victor.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been spending every second I can with him.” She says the last part all breathy again. I take a closer look at her in the dimly lit room. Her face is flushed and her eyes are glowing, as if she has a fever. Then it dawns on me.
“How ‘with’ him are you?” I ask, surprised at my own nosiness. She turns and looks me full in the face and doesn’t say anything. She just smiles.
“Wow,” is all I manage. My mind gropes for something to add, but it’s touchy. Alarms have been going off in my head about Liam for some time. I’m afraid for Tink, but she looks so happy, I don’t want to bring her down. Plus, my guess is she would be deaf to my words of caution.
Perfect timing on Ian’s part spares me from fumbling around for the right thing to say. He must have noticed Tink at the booth from the bar because he has a drink for her, too. We spend a few moments sorting drinks and making small talk. Ian has bounced back yet again, quick to smile and make us laugh. It’s a relief to be on lighter topics.
Lily and Jennifer soon collapse into the booth, taking their first break of the evening from the dance floor. Jennifer makes cow eyes at Ian and begs him to get more drinks. When he returns, he pulls Jennifer onto her feet and dances with her. He doesn’t ask me for the rest of the night; he mainly dances with her. They’re together for all the slow ones. She really plasters herself on him. Wallpaper couldn’t get closer. I’m not sure how I feel about that.