Authors: Lane Tracey
Chapter 3
It’s in neat stacks covering
every inch of the bed and in my fantasy it combusts, violently and absolutely, flames consuming every last poisonous paper shred. All four hundred, thirty-two thousand of it. Counting and re-counting hasn’t made it any less. There is no way a teenager came by that amount of money by herself. But it does help to explain my feelings of being hunted. Someone wants the money.
It doesn’t explain the memory loss, though. There’s no head wound on me, so the mem
ory loss is not from hitting my head. So what happened to make me this way? Oh, I just don’t know enough about this stuff! I need to look it up on the Internet. I also need to know if there’s a family out there who’s looking for me. But I’m too scared to go out.
Three days seem like three years.
My pattern goes like this: I get up, check on the money, shower, put on the same disgusting clothes, turn on the news for the missing money, crack the window shade, hurry outside to the vending machine, call for pizza delivery if I’m feeling brave, pace around the room, repeat these steps until I go insane.
I’ve got to get out of here.
During all the pacing, my mind has alternated between wanting to stay holed up in the motel and working on a plan to get out. This room has been my cocoon. But now it’s time. I’ve got to be with people, even if it’s a risk. Grabbing the magazine with the circled ad for cabs, I reach for the phone.
Hours later I’m back, tired, but not willing to give myself a break even though my shoulders are screaming from carrying my backpack full of money. My hair has gone from long and dirty blonde to shoulder-length, layered and dark brown. I like it. It fits me. I wasn’t about to cut and dye my own hair in this motel room. Whoever is hunting me would figure I’m going to change my hair. The point is to look different. So why not get it done right, I figure.
There
’s also lots of food, stuff you won’t find in a vending machine. It lines the bathroom counter and bedside table in neat little rows. I ate at the food court in the mall until my stomach felt like it was going to blow up. It obviously has been a long time since my last real meal, other than pizza. I also bought a few items of clothing, shoes, a large bag, some make-up, other necessities.
My two most important purchases are a small suitcase and a laptop. This dump has
Internet connection—for an extra fee, of course—so the stench can be tolerated. Besides searching online, I’m going to rip up the lining of the suitcase, put three-fourths of the money from the backpack inside the lining and then glue it back together.
It was nerve-racking being out and exposed. The ride in the cab to the mall was a blur of constantly looking behind us to see
whether we were being followed. But there was no one there. My hair change was first so I could feel disguised. Even so, the entire day was spent vigilant and full of anxiety, waiting for someone to grab me.
I call the front desk and get the code for the
Internet and mess around a bit, but can’t bring myself to see if there’s a missing person’s search out for me. Not yet. My hand slams the lid shut and holds it tight as if it’s going to try to pry itself open. No, not yet. Instead, there’s plenty of money to hide.
By
eleven p.m., I’m fighting exhaustion, both emotional and physical. My body aches to crawl under the covers and hide, but I need to go out again. I dread being out, exposed and having to look over my shoulder constantly. But there’s one more thing that has to be done today. After that, I can rest.
I run a brush through my hair, apply light make-up and check myself out in the mirror. Not so deathly pale now
with the make-up. Acceptable. I transfer the quarter of the money still left in the backpack to my new oversized bag, and put a small amount of the cash in a new wallet. I leave the suitcase with the money glued into the lining open on my bed, as if there’s nothing to hide. I try to eat a snack, but I’m too nervous.
I call a taxi to take me to the
Strip, slipping the relatively lighter bag onto my shoulder. On my earlier trip, I found out I’m in North Las Vegas, in an old, seedy part of town. The Strip is what is featured in most advertisements of Las Vegas. The cab drops me off in the middle of it after battling traffic, both cars and tourists. The lights and crowds overwhelm me. I’m almost too warm in jeans and a tank top because it’s still more than eighty degrees outdoors. I walk down the sidewalk, staring open-mouthed up at the megawatt signs, trying unsuccessfully not to stare at the people.
The noise is overwhelming, too. I hear slot machines from open-door casinos, people raucous inside. Someone barks at me. My head whips around
, my stomach ice inside then I relax. It’s a gangly, flaming redhead, easily six foot five. He offers a lopsided grin and with slurred speech wishes me a happy St. Patrick’s Day even though it’s summer. He has no green on. Instead, he’s cut a hole in his white t-shirt to display a bright green, four-leaf clover chest tattoo. I can’t help but grin back.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, but it sounds like “yer byooful.”
“Uh, Tim, we gotta get back,” says his friend who stands uncomfortably in the background. I notice they have drinks hanging by straps around their necks. Each drink is a two-foot-long tube with a bulb at the end. It’s amazing these guys are still on their feet. They look too young to be drinking.
Breathe. Don’t let this moment pass. This is what you’re out here for. You can do this.
“Hey. You guys know where you can get a fake ID?”
“You can get anything you want back there. Just watch awhile.” Tim’s friend gestures back toward a courtyard at an enormous hotel where vendors are hawking thei
r wares in the thick crowd. I twist around to look for a good observation point, and by the time I turn back to thank my new friends, they’re gone. There’s barking close by. No doubt they’ve forgotten me already. I can’t believe my luck. I had planned to hang out and meet some people, hoping that Las Vegas would live up to its reputation, but I didn’t expect results on the first try.
A short bridge spanning a waterway seems the best vantage point, so I retreat to it and begin watching. It’s fascinating to just watch. Most people seem to be having a good time. I can’t help but feel excited in the charged atmosphere. And the street vendors seem to be carrying on a mix of legal and illegal business. To my left, near the corner, one guy in a
baseball cap thumbs the side of his nose whenever younger people walk by. Two girls about eighteen or nineteen approach him. They give him money. He furtively hands them a tiny plastic bag of white powder.
If I crane my neck and look along the
Strip, guys slap cards loudly in the palm of their hands to attract the attention of other men walking by. I hear “girls” and “anything you want.” To my right, next to the hotel, one striking-looking vendor shouts manically about half-price tickets to shows, zip-lining, the water park, you-name-it. It all makes me dizzy and feel like Alice lost down the rabbit hole.
I’m distracted by a family strolling by, arms linked, with a daughter about my age.
What if someone’s looking for me, sick with worry?
I think with a pain so piercing I nearly double over. I’m so intent on this thought that a surprised yelp escapes me when hands grip my hips and hot breath prickles my neck.
“You’re late. I’ve bee
n looking all over for you.”
I whirl around, panicked. Have I been caught? Or do I know this person? Did something in my unconscious tell me to come to this place? I search his featu
res and recognize nothing. Then it hits me.
“Semi-clever pick-up line,” I say, trying to look like I’ve heard them all.
“Is it working?” He says this in a really deep voice, presumably because he thinks it’s hot. All I see is an over-muscled guy in too-tight clothes with gel-slicked hair and he’s really starting to scare me. Squinting into the distance, I search for the redhead. Luckily, he sticks out like a giant lit match in the crowd.
“Sorry, no. Not working.”
“Come on, let me get you a drink, pretty girl,” he says, almost purring. I can smell the mix of alcohol and tobacco on his breath as he imprisons me by placing his hands on either side of me on the rail. The muscles on his upper arms bulge, straining his shirt.
“See that redhead?” I say, pointing, trying to sound in control, sounding scared instead. “See that guy next to him? That’s my brother. My very protective brother. I’m going to call him if you don’t leave me alone.” His head turns briefly to the crowd and back. He waits a beat,
and then his smile and eyes go cold.
“OK, OK,” he says, pushing off the rail. “Your loss.” He runs stubby fingers down my cheek and neck before walking away without a backward glance. The feel of his fingers on my skin lingers, as unpleasant as snail tracks.
What is wrong with these people?
At this point, everything has a surreal quality. I’m so exhausted and emotionally used up that I can barely stand. As if he can read my mind, one vendor I’ve been watching looks straight up at me and gives me a huge smile. He looks exactly like a wolf.
That’s it. I can’t take any more. I head straight for the front of the hotel where cabs are lined up waiting for fares, launch myself into the first available one, and head back to the motel. In the room, I lock the door, drag the table and chairs in front of it, throw off my clothes and crawl into bed.
Once there, I come undone. The tears won’t stop. I know I have to be tough. Someone is after me and soon may find me. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder and I can’t afford to fall apart. The time for hiding in the corner is over. But right now I feel so alone and scared. Alone and scared and lost.
Chapter
4
It’s difficult not to kill him immediately. He annoys me so. On the other hand, it amuses me to prolong the agony of this cretin. I can almost taste his fear. Sweat pours down his ugly, pockmarked face and he keeps shifting from one foot to the other as if he has to take a whiz in the worst way.
“Go over it all again, especially the part where you lost her.” My last three words have an edge and he’s cowering and shaking as if I’ve struck him.
“God, I don’t know. We’re in the raft. Class Four rapids. A little calmer this time of year, but still…I wait until the perfect time, then whack her dad over the head and dump him over the side. I thought I caved in his skull, I hit him so hard. I was going to do the same with her, but she had already jumped in after her dad. I go in after the both of them. Her dad’s coming around so I have my hands full. He’s a fighter; it takes a while. By that time, she’s gone.” He licks his cracked lips and actually grabs his crotch as if he can’t wait any longer.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” My fingers clutch my temples to soothe the blood vessels pulsing there.
“I look up after doing her dad and she’s nowhere to be seen.” The poor fool can’t take his eyes off my fingers as they move to stroke the katana sword on my desk.
“And then?”
His voice is higher when he starts talking again. “I get to the bank of the river. I’m looking all over the place. She’s gone. So I search both sides of the river. It takes a while because I’ve got to cross where it’s calmer. No trace of her. I finally go back to their cabin. There are wet tracks in the cabin and garage. Car’s gone.” He looks at me hopefully, like a dog wanting a treat for rolling over. I’m so disgusted; my fingers twitch on the sword as I imagine the pleasure of lopping his fool head off.
“What about their boat?”
“What, you mean the raft?”
“No, I mean their boat, you idiot! While you were wasting your time in an impossible search on the shoreline, you could have just waited for her by their boat. She had to take their family boat the three miles from the raft launch point back to their cabin. It’s the way they got there and the fastest way back to the cabin. Or, you could have gone straight to their cabin to wait for her. By searching, you gave her time to get away.” The sharp pain in my head tells me I’m about to lose control. He gives me a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t think of that.”
It’s the lack of intelligence that offends me the most.
My hand opens the desk drawer housing my suppressed Glock 26. Almost a shame to get it dirty for the likes of him. The man’s eyes are trained on the gun and he’s begging for his life. His pants have a growing stain in the front, I notice with distaste. Groveling on his knees now, he’s crying about a wife and kids. He says he’s sorry he didn’t think about the boat.
I get mad all over again and shoot him in the head.
It’s a clean shot. The look of disbelief followed by the realization this is it. The inevitable bleeding and crumpling to the floor are all mildly interesting.
But this part is best. I crouch down low over his face so I can watch the light slowly go out of his eyes. Ah, there it goes. Slowly going. And, it’s gone. Extinguished. Blank. I feel a chill at the bottom of my spine as I know the last thing he saw in this life was me. Beautiful.
A lovely calm has taken the place of all that pent-up anger. This is holy work, to rid the world of stupid creatures. They must not be allowed to procreate further. Energy surges through my muscles as I move to my desk and through my fingers as I push the intercom button.
“Did you hear all that?” My voice sounds powerful to my ears.
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. Come up.” It will take a few moments to climb the flight of stairs to my study. Everything looks perfectly in place in the room. Except the dead body, of course. The blood may be difficult to get out of the Persian carpet. I’ll have to get rid of it. Pity.
The woman enters and it startles me how much she looks like the help with her mousy hair and dumpy figure. Her shoes are brown, clunky things. Thick lenses magnify eyes that stare at me without blinking, frog-like. She’s so…untidy. Still, she comes highly recommended as the best tracker in the business, so I’ll give her a chance. One chance.
What’s her name? Wilson? Williams? Wilcox, that’s it.
“So, Ms. Wilcox, tell me again what you reported on the phone and give me any new information.” Her amphibian eyes shift from me to the body and back.
“Rita. Call me Rita.” Wilcox delivers this in a monotone without a change in expression. I nod.
“The boat was docked. Dried mud tracks in the house led to her room and to a trap door under the rug in the family room. She took the time to put the rug back in place, but it didn’t take much to find the trap door.” Her body stays in the same position, but her eyes move to the decanters on the liquor cart. “Scotch?” I don’t say anything. She outwaits me. I get up and pour two fingers for each of us and hand hers over. Her mouth turns down as she conspicuously notes the amount. She drinks it down as if she’s drinking a glass of water. She sighs when she sees I’m not going to pour more.
“There was only an empty safe in the space beneath the trap door. Some clothes were thrown around her room. Van Clief’s Aston Martin was in the garage. You already know she went straight to the police station in town because you got a call from the chief there. On the phone you said you’d brief me about that.” Rita’s eyes return to the Scotch yearningly. I sigh pointedly, get up again, and splash some more in her glass. The corner of her mouth twitches in thanks, or perhaps it’s a tic.
I try not to look at her as I continue. “An idiot, the chief. He was my back-up plan if something went wrong. He has political aspirations and needs backing. We traded favors. Apparently he listened to her story and sat her in a chair outside his office. He got on the phone immediately to me and swears she must have had her ear to the door. In any case, when he went back into the hall, she was gone. For God’s sake, woman!” Rita has shoved her empty glass across the table toward me for a refill. I get up yet again, grab the decanter, and slam it down on the desk in front of her.
“You can drink it straight out of here if you want; just pay attention!” She ignores my outburst and pours the alcohol to the rim. Holding the glass in one hand, she drags a heavy antique chair across the room, parks it right next to the dead body and settles her wide bottom in it contentedly. If she spills Scotch on my Louis XIV, I’ll shoot her in the head, tracking skills be damned. I close my eyes and count to ten before going on.
“So the chief goes after her, figuring she’ll go south,” I say through gritted teeth. “North is pretty much Canada. He drives two hours with sirens and lights on before he gives up. He finally figures out that she pulled over and hid out, waiting for him to pass. After checking possibilities on the way back, the chief finds the Aston Martin with the keys in it at a truck stop a half-hour from the station. Miracle it wasn’t stolen.”
“OK, you told me about the truck stop on the phone,” Wilcox says between sucks on her drink. “But, backtracking, I assume the chief covered all evidence of her visit to the station?” I nod, briefly. “And he didn’t involve other officers in the search because they don’t have an…agreement with you?” Again, a nod. “I didn’t ask neighbors or townspeople about seeing the Aston Martin. Hopefully they didn’t see anything. And at least the chief put the car back in the garage.”
“Least he could do.” He had a lot to make up for after losing the girl.
“Other rafters spotted Van Clief’s body caught in the roots of a tree just before the falls,” I continue, wishing I had earplugs to block the unpleasant slurping sounds erupting from this unfortunate woman. “The chief’s people are dragging the lake for the girl’s body. Now the guide will mysteriously disappear.” My eyes shift to the guide’s body on the rug. “Perhaps he’ll leave town suddenly. They’ll never find the girl’s or the guide’s body, of course.” My hand is stroking the sword again. “Ironically, it was lucky she wasn’t killed. We’ve torn apart the Van Cliefs’ offices, homes, and cabin. There are two trickier places to try. We thought it would be easy to find. I underestimated Van Clief. I’m sure he trusted the girl with a copy. I’ve got to find her.”
“None of the waiters in the coffee shop at the truck stop saw a girl fitting her description. I’m in the process of checking with all the truckers who have a regular route through there.” Rita has finished her Scotch and both her upper and lower lids have closed slightly. She looks even more frog-like.
“She could have gotten a ride with anyone. She could be anywhere.” The rage and frustration are building in me again. That a seventeen-year-old brat holds the key to my future is more than I can bear. My fingers rake through my hair.
“I’ll find her. People always leave a trail.” Rita stands on perfectly stable legs and lumbers gracelessly but steadily toward the door. She turns just before exiting. “By the way, your guy lied about caving in Van Clief’s skull. His body was found with his rafting helmet still on. Oh, and e-mail a photograph of the girl to me. It would also help if you get as much information as possible about her from your daughter.” She leaves without another word. My anger is abruptly replaced by shock.
Why would the guide lie to me about hitting Van Clief? It makes no sense. Did he lie to me about anything else? I look at his lifeless body leaking body fluid all over my lovely carpet. Well, he obviously can’t tell me now.
Slowly my hand reaches for my phone and I tap the face of it. She doesn’t answer so I wait for voicemail: “Hi, pumpkin. How would you like to go carpet shopping with me later today and then have dinner? No occasion, just father-daughter stuff. I’ll call you later. Love you.” Knowing she abhors actual voice contact with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns, I also text an abbreviated message to the same effect.
That chore finished, my attention is drawn back to the body. My mind settles on a name to get rid of the unpleasantness and I feel relieved. Everything will be back in order again by late afternoon. Almost everything. The Van Clief girl. There won’t be a moment’s rest until the information is forced from her. The blood is slowly congealing around the body before me. But shooting her like I did this fool will be too quick. Maybe I’ll drown her ever so slowly. Imagining it makes me shiver with anticipation.