by Dean Koontz
“Listen,” she said, “you know every jake and gumshoe dick in the country is looking for me. Why do you think they can’t put their hands on little old me, one girl on the run?”
Enrique stared once more at the man in the Mercedes. “Because you got connections like him.”
“There you go.”
“Where’s the Ford Escape I sold you like not three weeks ago?”
“It got on a hot sheet. I parked it along a highway in Texas with a trooper cuffed to the door. He pulled me over, so I had to chain him to slow him down while I took his patrol car for a ride.”
Enrique smiled and shook his head. “Girl, you’re pedal-to-the-metal headed for a cement wall.”
“Negative thinking brings negative results.”
“Thinkin’ positive won’t never change cement to cardboard.”
A guy arrived in a metallic-gray Ford Explorer Sport.
“It’s got thunder?” she asked.
Enrique opened the hood. “Know what you’re lookin’ at?”
“A purpose-built 502 Chevy. Seven hundred horsepower or more.”
“Eight-twenty-five. Bendix aluminum cylinder heads. Pair of Edelbrock six-fifty-cfm four-barrels with an MSD ignition. Pops a two-fifty shot of nitrous oxide in the fuel mix. Turbo Four Hundred transmission with Gear Vendors overdrive. It’s a monster.”
“You had to do body work to get all that in there.”
“Ripped out the navigation system. Clean papers. New off the lot with no improvements, they’d take you for forty-six thousand.”
She closed the hood. “Except it didn’t cost you anything.”
“Paid fourteen hundred to the dude who boosted it new. Four hundred more to get it to Mexico for a redo. Then the improvements.”
“Mostly made with stolen parts that cost you nothing.”
“Don’t cut off my cojones. You know, labor isn’t free.”
“We already bargained, Ricky. I’m not trying to renegotiate.” She opened her handbag and gave him the twenty-eight thousand in hundred-dollar bills to which they had agreed on the phone.
“Papers and keys are in it. Plus a nice little air-freshener, it’s shaped like a puppy, the flower smell comes out his butthole.”
“Your customer service is unparalleled.”
When she started around to the driver’s door, he put a hand on her arm. “Say I do somethin’ nice for you…will you tell the Jew about it?”
“Depends on whether I agree it’s something nice.”
He peeled three thousand off the money she had given him and returned it to her. “A little discount in honor of the man.”
Tucking the money in her handbag, she said, “That’s very generous of you, Ricky.”
“Be sure you tell him my name.”
“I will. I’ll tell him.”
As she opened the driver’s door of the Explorer, Enrique said, “Try to keep this one more than three weeks. You can’t be spendin’ so much on cars. You should listen to Dave Ramsey on the radio, get with his budget plan.”
10
* * *
Given the trajectory of recent events, Jolie Tillman figured they were sliding into some horrific circumstance. In fact, the angle and slipperiness of the slope were steadily increasing. She sensed a growing momentum that made her queasy.
They didn’t get out of Lake Forest as early as they meant to, and they didn’t entirely escape the Chicago rush hour, and they stopped for breakfast in a town called Merrillville, where Jolie ordered waffles with whipped cream and syrup and butter, plus a glass of chocolate milk. She didn’t usually eat so badly, but she was in a mood that only a lot of sugar and animal fat might cure.
Everyone seemed to be in a mood this morning. Twyla, of course, was either hooked on some exotic illegal drug or fending off a life-threatening condition with medication, might be pregnant, was in the thrall of—and being manipulated by—the devious Charles C. Charles of the infamous Charles family, so the fact that she was brooding and quiet was no surprise. Naturally, Mother was worried because she didn’t know where Daddy was, because she and her children were on the run from the kind of people who had tattoos of snakes eating their own tails, and because maybe their lives were never going to be the same again, which explained why her usually smooth brow was now continuously lined like wide-wale corduroy and why she didn’t care to pass the time in frivolous conversation.
The trip was therefore tedious, but they arrived in the fabled city of Indianapolis, and at precisely 10:51 A.M., Twyla used the disposable phone to input Daddy’s burner number and then handed it to Mother while it was ringing, so that Mother could break the law by driving with a cellphone in hand. As it turned out, Daddy didn’t yet know when they would be met by his emissary. Everything remained in flux. So he wanted them to go to Courtyard by Marriott on Fortune Circle and get a room if one was available for early check-in, there to wait to be contacted by James Bond or the equivalent. If no room was available for early check-in, they were to pass the time in the lobby or restaurant until contacted.
This Courtyard by Marriott stood near the airport, a nice small-scale four-story hotel, and there was a room available for early check-in, and the front desk took cash instead of a credit card. Daddy had said Mother needed to abandon Aunt Tandy’s Dodge, which was a relief to Jolie, because she was steeped to the bone in the lingering scent of Uncle Calvin’s verbena cologne and the smell of musty car carpet. A bellman brought their bags to the room, and he was cute enough to stir her imagination into concocting a future that didn’t involve traveling forever in fits and starts according to Daddy’s directions. But shortly after he left, her presentiment of sliding into some terrible danger was fulfilled big-time.
Twyla declared that she needed to use the bathroom, and she started to go in there with her purse, so Jolie said, “Why don’t you leave your phone here?”
Twyla said, “My phone?”
“Yes, your phone. You shouldn’t call Charles to tell him where we are. He doesn’t need to know, and anyway, we’re not supposed to be dropping breadcrumbs like Hansel and Gretel.”
Twyla stared at Jolie as if Jolie had gone mad. “Breadcrumbs?”
“You know what I mean.” She turned to her mother. “Mom, Twyla has some Svengali in her life named Charles, a truly devious man, and it’s possible he’s hooked her on drugs.”
Such a look of perplexity and anxiety settled on Mother that Jolie half wished she’d never started this, burdening her mother with yet another worry, but there was no going back.
“Jolie,” Mother said, “whatever’s gotten into you? Svengali? Drugs? If there’s one girl in this world who’s got her act together even more than you, it’s your sister.”
“Oh, Mom. I wish that were true. I really, really do.” Jolie picked up Twyla’s suitcase and put it on the bed, and Twyla told her not to open it, but Jolie unlatched the bag anyway and threw it open with dramatic flair. “Hypodermic syringes, Mother.”
Except there were no syringes and no insulated metal box where those things had been before.
Jolie opened the divider and revealed the other half of the suitcase, which appeared to contain no incriminating evidence.
Twyla looked at Jolie as if hurt and mystified, which was too deceitful, it really was.
Rooting determinedly through her sister’s clothes, searching for the needles and the insulated box of drugs chilled in dry ice, certain they had been repositioned, Jolie said, “Twy was sitting up in the armchair last night, sitting in the dark, watching me while I slept. I know you were, Twy. And now I know it was because you realized I’d found the drugs.”
As if bewildered, playing it as well as if she were an actress instead of a visual artist, Twyla said, “Mother, what’s wrong with her, why is she doing this?”
Switching to the first side of the suitcase and pawing through those clothes as well, Jolie said, “I’m doing it because it’s true. Where did you hide them, Twy? Open your purse. It’s a large purse. Let us s
ee what’s in the purse.”
Mother said, “Jolie, you’re overwrought. Sit down, honey, and calm yourself.”
“I’m not overwrought, Mom. I don’t get overwrought. I’ve never been overwrought in my life.”
Twyla stepped to the bed and turned her purse upside down. She had zipped open its various compartments. The contents tumbled onto the bedspread. “Look, Jo. You see? No syringes, no drugs. Unless you count Visine as a drug.” She held out the purse. “Here, go ahead, take it, make sure there’s nothing in it.”
“You knew I’d found them,” Jolie said. “So you ditched them back in Lake Forest. Twy, I love you. I’m only trying to help.”
“I believe you are, sweetheart. I believe you’re trying to help me, but I don’t need help, and I don’t understand where all this is coming from.”
“You sat up last night watching me sleep. Why were you watching me sleep? Because you knew I’d found the drugs, the needles.”
“I didn’t sit up watching you, Jo. I slept like a stone.”
Jolie wanted to puke. She was shocked that Twyla could lie so boldly and, it seemed, so effectively. “Like a stone, huh? Yeah, like the Blarney Stone. All this lying makes me want to spew. You’re making me sick, Twy, what you’re doing here, it makes me sick.”
Mother had gotten a Coca-Cola from the honor bar and poured it in a glass. “Here, Jolie. Sit down, calm yourself.” She guided Jolie to an armchair. “Drink this, baby, drink it and settle your nerves.”
Jolie took the glass and frowned at it and said, “Who drinks Coke to settle their nerves?”
“You just said you wanted to throw up,” Mother reminded her. “Everyone knows that Coca-Cola can settle a bad tummy.”
“Take a deep breath,” Twyla said, “drink your Coke, and then we’ll talk about this, Jo. I’ll answer all your questions. This is just some ridiculous misunderstanding.”
Jolie suddenly heard herself anxiety-breathing. She had been taking rapid, shallow breaths, hyperventilating like a frightened child, and she hadn’t realized the image of distress she projected. She actually wasn’t afraid, only worried about Twyla and frustrated that Twy had been aware of her suspicion and had taken steps to hide or destroy the evidence. But addicts were world-class deceivers both of other people and of themselves. Everybody knew that.
Trying to be calm and sound reasonable, Jolie was still too shrill when she said, “Make Twyla show you her arms, Mom. You’ll see needle tracks on one or both arms. Make her show you. Make her.”
“Jolie, you’re scaring me now,” Mother said. “This isn’t like you, saying such horrible crazy things about your sister.”
Twyla said, “It’s okay, Mother. Look. Look at this.” She pulled up the right sleeve of her blouse, well past the crook of the elbow. The skin was smooth. No puncture marks from self-injections. “Look here.” She pulled up the left sleeve. Flawless skin. “It’s all just some silly misunderstanding. Calm down, Jo, drink your Coke, and we’ll talk, we’ll work this out.”
Mother sat on the arm of the chair, smoothing Jolie’s hair with one hand. “Please, honey, let’s all be adults here. Drink the Coca-Cola and calm down, and we’ll sort this out.”
Jolie had been urged once too often to drink the Coca-Cola. Maybe twice too often. In an instant she was calm, totally composed, self-possessed in the manner of a condemned man with a noose around his neck and a trap door under his feet and mere seconds in which to think of a way to slip out of the hangman’s rope. Mother sat on the arm of the chair, one hand now on Jolie’s shoulder. Twyla stood in front of the chair. Loomed in front of the chair. Twyla was staring at the glass of fizzing cola. Mother also stared at the glass of cola. As if the glass were the Grail and the Coke was the wine that would be changed into blood.
Jolie said, “Oh, shit.”
Mother looked up from the cola. Twyla looked up from the cola.
Jolie bolted from the chair, threw the Coke in her sister’s face…
11
* * *
As prearranged, Jane followed Bernie Riggowitz to the outskirts of Tucson, less than an hour from Enrique de Soto’s unconventional car dealership, where they parked side by side in a supermarket lot. They transferred Jane’s suitcases and tote bag from the Mercedes to the Ford Explorer.
“Better take off that hat,” she said, “or some cop might arrest you for being a Mob boss.”
“Who knew I could look like a stone-cold killer? Enough with this retirement business, I got a career as a character actor.”
“You’re a character, that’s for sure.”
They hugged each other, and she kissed him on the cheek, and he said she should wait, there was something he wanted to give her. He gave her his iPhone number, his address in Brooklyn, the address of his daughter in Scottsdale, his daughter’s phone number, the name and number of his nephew, a periodontist, in case she ever needed a tooth implant, a card from a bakery in Scottsdale where their challah was to die for, and one of the photographs of Miriam that he carried in his wallet as he traveled the country with her spirit.
After another hug, she got in the Explorer and closed the door, and Bernie leaned in the open window. “Make like you really are my granddaughter, Alice, and tell me true—are you going to be okay?”
“I have a chance, Bernie. What do any of us have but a chance?”
“Whatever you’ve mixed yourself in, I hope you mix yourself out. By me, you deserve more than a chance, you deserve the best.”
She hesitated and said, “Do you really not know who I am?”
“Should I maybe watch the news, read the news? Feh! It’s all lies or depressing, or depressing lies. I don’t need to know who you are to know who you are.”
12
* * *
…threw the Coke in Twyla’s face and barreled into her and knocked her backward onto the hotel-room bed.
Mother came off the arm of the chair—“Jolie, stop this!”—and grabbed her.
Jolie tore free and went for the door.
A deadbolt. A security chain.
Mother clutched Jolie’s hand and tried to prevent her from disengaging the chain. “We only want the best for you, honey. It’s for the best, it really is.”
Never had Jolie raised a hand against her mother. Until now she never imagined a situation in which either might assault the other. She found herself left defenseless by love, unable to strike a blow.
Mother turned Jolie away from the door, pressed her back to it, and pinned her there. No anger in Mother’s face. Only what seemed to be concern.
“Honey, it’s okay. You don’t understand, but it’s going to be okay. Would I ever do anything to hurt you, sweetie? Of course I wouldn’t. I brought you into the world, and I want only good things for you. Only the very best.”
Their faces were inches apart, breath mingling with breath. Jolie searched her mother’s eyes. She could see nothing different about those eyes. No menace in them.
“I just want to go for a walk,” Jolie said, dismayed to hear a tremor in her voice. This was her mother, but Jolie sensed that it was dangerous to convey weakness. “I just need some fresh air, clear my head.”
“We have to stay here, honey, in case Daddy’s friends contact us. Anyway, I can’t let you go for a walk alone, a pretty young girl in a strange city.”
Twyla had wiped the cola out of her eyes. She lifted Mother’s suitcase onto the bed. “Listen to Mom, Jo. I don’t know why you’ve taken such a turn against me, but you know Mom is on your side.”
“Jolie, dear, you’re shaking like a leaf,” Mother said. “What in the world is going through that crazy imagination of yours? Let’s go back to the chair and you sit down and I’ll get you another Coca-Cola.”
Opening the suitcase, Twyla said, “You should have drunk your cola last night at McDonald’s, the one I ordered with your dessert.”
Still pressing Jolie against the door, Mother smiled and said, “It was just too much sweet, cola with a dessert. That’s what
you said. And you were right, of course.”
So there must have been a sedative in the cola.
“When you and Mother came back from the bathroom,” Twyla said, “she drank her coffee, she drank it all, and if you had just drunk your cola, you wouldn’t be so agitated now.”
Her mother smiled. Her breath was warm and pleasant-smelling. It reminded Jolie of the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Mother’s voice was soft and reassuring. “Twyla’s right, dear. You wouldn’t now be so agitated. You see, I’m not. This is all unnecessary, sweetheart. Let’s go back to the chair and sit down and be respectful to one another.”
From Mother’s suitcase, Twyla extracted the hypodermic syringes and the insulated metal box. She put them on the bedspread.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Jolie asked.
“Happen to you?” Mother said and laughed softly, with apparent affection, as if her younger daughter’s failure to understand was adorable. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, honey. I love your sense of drama. You’re probably going to be a great writer someday. A really great writer.”
“What’re those needles about?”
“You get a flu vaccine every year, don’t you?”
“This isn’t about the flu. It’s not that time of year. Anyway, doctors give flu shots.”
Mother’s voice was soothing and so reasonable. “Oh, not only doctors, Jolie. Nurses give them. Sometimes pharmacists give them. People with the littlest bit of training give them at warehouse stores, places like that. You’ve even had a flu shot at a warehouse store, honey, and you said it was the most painless ever. Do you remember? Of course you do. And you’re right, sweetie, this isn’t about the flu. It’s much more important than a silly little flu shot.”
The more Mother talked, the less she seemed like Mother. There was a word for the way she sounded now: oleaginous. Oily. She was trying too hard to comfort Jolie, layering on the reassurance too thickly.