“We can’t do this all day; you’ll fucking kill me!”
“Aranha!” She slithered into her skirt and blouse. No panties. Just in case.
“Who you calling pussy?” Jess whacked her hard on her behind. She didn’t flinch. His hand stung.
“Aranha,” she repeated with a saucy grin.
By the time they hopped into her baby-blue convertible, the sky had blushed with the first morning light.
He ordered Bonita to take him to the train station. He debated whether to board as Justin Barnes. He was saving his other disguises for the rest of his journey.
“Hey, slow down. You’re gonna get us fucking killed.”
She pressed down on the pedal. His scream sounded like a little girl. They roared with laughter, traveling down the highway at 110 miles an hour. When they approached the train station, Bonita came to a screeching halt on the tracks.
“C’mon, baby. This is no time for games.”
“Aranha.” When she put the car in park, his hand reached for the door handle. She climbed on the back of her seat. Head bent back, hair whipping in the wind, her long legs straddled the steering wheel and her feet pressed against the dash. Her decision not to wear panties gave him a peek as to what was in store if he were daring enough to partake. The sound of the train whistle exited him beyond measure. However, he was no fool.
“Call me all the names you want, baby. You’re not worth dying for.”
She didn’t heed his warning. As the whistle drew near, she thrust her breasts skyward and gave him a come-hither look. He backed away, relishing her stubbornness. Clearly, she was insane.
CHAPTER 6
PSYCHIC POWERS
M isha arrived twenty minutes before her appointment. Grace sorted bills and prepared a quick lunch. Misha withdrew a paperback from her bag. They both glanced up occasionally, and when their eyes met, knowingness surged between them. Grace tried to ignore Misha’s attempt to “read” her, but couldn’t help wonder what the self-proclaimed psychic picked up on. The soup she microwaved tasted more like Styrofoam than the cream-of-chicken flavor printed on the cup. With two bites, her appetite disappeared. She concentrated instead on writing checks to utility companies, addressing envelopes, and running the payments through the postage machine. At 12:58, she rose with Misha’s file in hand.
“Misha, ready?” Grace led her client down the hall and into her office. Neither one spoke until the door closed.
“My ride was early.”
“Mr. Olsen behaving himself?”
Misha lowered her head. “Mrs. Olsen drove me.”
“Oh?”
“You’re intuitive.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are gifted, Miss Simms. Your aura is violet and red: signs of a healer and a mystic.”
“I don’t know what you’re seeing, Misha, but I can tell you, I rely on years of education and service to make my assessments. It’s my job to be aware when something is wrong. You lowered your head when I asked about Mr. Olsen. What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“I overheard Mr. and Mrs. Olsen fighting the other night. Mrs. Olsen was crying. She told him, ‘It’s either her or me.’” Misha’s eyes filled with tears. “I have nowhere to go. My father doesn’t want me to come home. Mrs. Olsen wants me out of her house.” Misha turned away.
Grace waited.
“Where do I go? What do I do?” Misha’s words came out broken. Grace’s heart wanted to hold the girl’s pain.
“No need to pity me, Miss Simms. I am fine.” Misha sat up staunchly, turning away from Grace. Years of propriety and prep schools taught her to be tough, to hide her emotions.
“How’s the manuscript coming along?”
“My book?” Misha wiped her face with a tissue. She managed a slight smile. “I haven’t written much lately. Too many things crowd my mind. It is not a coincidence, me being here. Yes, I am sad. Yes, Mr. Olsen is— How do American’s say—a letch—but I am sure now my purpose in coming here is to warn you.”
Grace rubbed the tiny bumps forming on her flesh. Electricity buzzed through her body. Fear. She couldn’t shake it. “Warn me? Against what?”
“I see a train and a man. The train cannot stop. The man who is not what he appears to be travels with a woman. The woman is in danger, and so are you.”
“Misha, let’s talk about you.”
“We are talking about me. It is my duty to help the universe. I am aware now. The Olsens, the Greek government—they serve as catalysts for what needs to be done. Like I said, there are no coincidences. I came here to tell you these things. Please, Miss Simms. Believe me. Let me help you stay safe.”
“I am safe. I have a dog.” A boyfriend. “Your intuitiveness contains some truth. I have had my share of troubles, but they’re in the past. My job now is to help you work through your depression and sadness.”
“Please believe what I say. Your friend, she has been connected to you for many lifetimes. She is ill, yet, she worries for you. I see it. This man who says he is one person but is not—he won’t be stopped until—”
“Until, what?”
Misha held her head. The color drained from her face. “Be careful, Miss Simms. Trust your instincts, not your heart.”
“Misha, do you want my help?”
“You need my help more than I need yours.”
Grace’s scalp tingled. Her toes felt numb. Her heart beat twice the normal rate. Jess came to mind. “Tell me what else you see.”
“This man is bad. He is difficult to read, and he will not stop until you are dead.”
“Who is he?”
“I cannot describe his face, only the dark energy that surrounds him.” Misha closed her eyes. “He has already taken a loved one. Evil travels in his blood. He has many faces, many names.
“One thing is clear to me. He enjoys killing.”
Grace shuddered. “Misha, I assure you—”
“Look for his disguise. His mind is weak, sick. I see a train and fire.” Misha opened her eyes. Her long lashes clumped together, wet with fresh tears. “He wasn’t always a monster. Cruelty and shame left their mark.”
Grace considered herself empathetic. You know nothing. “Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m not getting the exact location.”
“Misha, I think we should stick to your issues. Have you heard from your family?”
“South—the woman says to head south. She speaks to him in another language.”
“Who is the woman?”
“I only see feminine energy close to him.”
“Speaking of feminine, when is the last time you talked to your sisters?”
Misha’s face became void of emotion. Grace sensed a shift, one Misha wasn’t happy to make. Her expression said: you don’t believe me. And maybe she didn’t. Why? Grace thought. Because you don’t want to? Or because if you do, your heart will leap from your chest and you won’t be able to breathe? “Any letters?” Grace asked.
“My family must be busy. No letters or phone calls.”
“Have you written or tried to call them?”
“No.”
“If I recall correctly, you said you were very close to your sisters.”
“Yes, YaiYai, too.”
“Sad. Sometimes when tragedy occurs, say, being yanked from one’s environment, our minds want to avoid the pain by creating an alternative scenario in which we can work out our feelings.”
“Are you saying I am making things up?”
“No. I am saying that focusing on me allows you to avoid your pain.”
Misha rose and grabbed her purse. She extracted a check from her wallet and slapped it on Grace’s desk. “He is going to kill you.” She turned and walked out the door.
“Misha—” Grace didn’t aggressively try to stop her. She was in no mood for confrontation. She lacked sleep. She missed Sal. She yearned for Paul to hold her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay.
Later that evening, she and Buns
took in a movie. The local theater ran classics on Tuesdays. Buns, a Hitchcock fan, was thrilled. The boy seemed to be adjusting to Grace’s routine, and they were getting along famously. The evening turned into the best part of her day. When she climbed into bed, she fell asleep almost immediately, but staying asleep presented a challenge. At 5:30 a.m., she called it quits and got up.
Misha’s warning crept into the ether between sleep deprivation and Grace’s first cup of coffee. She didn’t want to heed a warning from a person who most likely suffered from disillusionment, so she turned on her computer and waited for the screen to come alive. Suddenly, the headline on her homepage hit like a sledgehammer to the head:
BUENOS AIRES (Reuters) - A packed commuter train plowed into the Buenos Aires station during Wednesday’s morning rush hour killing 49. Six hundred were injured in Argentina’s worst rail accident in more than 30 years, officials said.
Passengers told of chaos and panic as the impact of the collision propelled the second train car into the first carriage, trapping dozens of passengers as others looked on from the busy platforms at the central station.
Officials said a stalled vehicle and faulty brakes are suspected to have caused the accident.
Grace sat frozen in her chair. Her mind slipped a gear. Her chest didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.
* * *
Jess searched through rubble for the saucy redhead. Damn. He picked up a chunk of baby-blue fender. He knew she was fuckin’ crazy. That’s what he liked about her. However, he didn’t anticipate her playing chicken on the train tracks. He tossed the fender aside. Where are you, my lovely? A hand severed from its owner lodged between the track and the remnants of an unscathed hubcap. Her French-manicured nails glittered in the sun. Stupid bitch. He had hopped out of the passenger door the second she shifted into park. She’d called him names when she perched on the back of her seat and started removing her blouse. Oh how he longed to taste her exposed breasts one last time. Fuckin’ crazy.
He missed her already.
Fire engines squealed to the scene, their sirens blaring. Jess heard muffled moans as he walked through the aftermath, desensitized to the cries for help. Body parts littered the underside of the train where metal had sliced into flooring. Twisted seats pinned women and children against shattered glass. Smoke rose in the air. The stench of ozone and burning flesh reached his nostrils. He smiled. How many times had he encountered that smell? His left eye began to twitch. His smirk lacked humor. He reached into his pocket and extracted two items. Bye-bye, Jess. He stooped down and placed his driver’s license in the coat pocket of a mangled corpse. Authorities would most certainly have to depend on dental charts to identify the victim. Perhaps my ID will make it easier.
He studied the business card Bonita slipped into his pocket with her teeth before she went ape shit. He rose, brushing dust from his pants. “Sorry, buddy. I know you need a plastic surgeon more than I do, but, hey, we can’t all catch a lucky break.”
* * *
Paul shoved his hands into his pockets. Skip stood by a tree, his back to the men. Raphael leaned against the back of the car, his ear pressed to his phone. Raphael’s moan caught Paul’s attention. Skip turned midstream. Raphael dropped to his knees, praying in Portuguese.
“What?” Paul rushed to the man’s side.
“Two trains crashed in Buenos Aires. My daughter,” he sobbed, “she takes that train to school.”
“Let’s go. Maybe she’s not hurt.” The three men jumped into the car. Silence pulled them closer. Within the hour, they saw smoke coming from the carnage. The men looked at each other in disbelief. Two commuter trains locked in a deadly embrace thirty feet high. The front end of the train lay on its side catawampus. Skip shook his head. Raphael turned white. Paul felt sick. Sirens whined in different pitches. Police, fire, and ambulance attendants maneuvered through the wreckage, loading bodies on stretchers and makeshift carriers.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Skip whistled between his teeth.
Paul went to Raphael. His pale face was wet with tears. He broke away from Paul’s grip. “I have to find her. I have to find my Mariel.” His trot turned into a run. Paul followed close behind. Skip grabbed some gear from the trunk of the car and joined in. All three flashed appropriate IDs allowing them access to the scene.
Paul felt for pulses. Skip pulled train parts off potential survivors. Raphael called for his Mariel. When Paul found a tiny hand that moved, he prayed for a strong heartbeat. Charred skin made the tiny body awkward to move. Paul didn’t want to cause more damage. He needed to remove the child from the mess before it was too late. He held the infant to his chest and rose, stepping over the pile of red hair.
Raphael wondered aimlessly among the myriad rescue workers digging through the rubble. “Mar-i-el,” he called hoarsely, “Mar-i-el! Suddenly, he heard a weak cry coming from one of the emergency vehicles.
“Pai?”
* * *
Grace gripped the arms of the chair. The article didn’t prove anything. Sure, it was a coincidence worth acknowledging, but what did this train wreck have to do with Jess? Certainly Jess didn’t tamper with the brakes or cause the two trains to crash. What would he have to gain? It wasn’t his style. No, he prefers to tie up women and keep them prisoner in his basement. Besides, Spider would’ve warned her if there were a problem. She knew he worked diligently trying to find Jess and bring him to justice.
The bumps on her skin had not receded. Her radar was picking up something. She plucked her phone from her purse and dialed Paul. Please answer. She needed to hear his voice. 5:45a.m. He wouldn’t be working this early in the morning, would he? His voice mail provided the answer she didn’t want to hear. She clicked the button to end the call. No message. Is this the way it’s going to be with him? He wouldn’t be available to her when she needed him most? Is that what you want in a relationship? Her question came with a built in answer. No. She spent the last eight years waiting, wanting. She thought Paul was different. Her heart ached for all the years she’d missed out, the years she mourned. Never again, she vowed.
* * *
Paul’s phone hummed in his pocket. He felt the urgency without looking to see who the call was from. He had a good guess. God, he hated deceiving her. Would she understand? Could he be honest and tell her he was on foreign soil hunting for the man she once loved? Vowing to make sure he never killed again? Would she forgive, knowing he had lied to her since the day they met? How could she ever trust him? Bad timing, it always boiled down to bad timing. Looking at the devastation before him, he wasn’t alone. These poor, poor people happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He considered himself lucky in comparison.
He placed the infant in the arms of a triage field nurse and watched her lie the boy on fresh white cotton sheeting. There was no more to be done on his part. He went back to the place he found the boy and began another search.
When he turned a body over, its charred skin slid across what use to be a jaw. No hope here. He reached in the man’s pockets. He couldn’t save the man, but he could bring closure to the family looking for him. When he opened the man’s wallet, his hand shook. He reeled backward, landing hard on his backside. It couldn’t be true. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he seethed, feeling cheated. Fate stole the chance to look into Jess’s eyes when he killed him.
Paul walked over to Skip, who assisted firefighters lift what appeared to be a wooden booth from the diner car. The men grunted in unison. What laid underneath sickened even the strongest constitution. Skip turned his face, vomited, and resumed his task. Paul held his hand over his mouth and stepped around the pile of smashed limbs.
“He’s dead.”
Skip eased his end of the booth off to the side. “Who’s dead?”
Paul held up the driver’s license. “Bartell.”
CHAPTER 7
TRUTH BE TOLD
T he vibration from the plane’s engines lulled the two men into quiet reflection. Paul thought about Grace and fel
t relief having Jess out of their lives. He pictured his grandmother’s ring on her finger. Better to have waited, he assured himself. Everything will be right for us now.
Skip stared out the window, his features contemplative and still. Suddenly, his uncertainty yanked Paul from his reverie. “When will they have the results?”
“No telling, with a death toll that high. Even with our guys on the inside, it may take weeks to confirm the body is Bartell’s. All we can do is remain optimistic.”
“Unless the dude has nine lives. I would venture to say the sick fuck finally met his maker.”
“You’re probably right. Raphael’s buddy said he was pretty sure the blue-metal scraps they found at the scene belonged to the flight attendant’s car.”
“Yeah, like you said, one can only hope.”
“I’m banking on it.”
Skip gave Paul a hearty slap on the shoulder and nodded. “So, what’s in store when you get back? Still lookin’ to get hitched?”
“What? Are you a mind reader now?”
“You got that stupid look on your face, dude. Not hard to figure out who you’re thinking about.”
“Yeah, well, I was getting ready to propose before I left. The timing was wrong.” He rubbed his palms dry on his faded jeans. “I plan to try a more romantic approach this time. Maybe go to the beach house.”
“Love the beach house, man. No way she’d refuse your ugly ass in that place!”
“Thanks, buddy. Love the support.”
“Anytime.”
Paul and Skip resumed silence. Paul closed his eyes and sorted his emotions into neat piles. Anger carried for Jess and his atrocities, he filed under forgiveness. The deed is done. Jess paid dearly for his sins. Paul need only imagine the mangled features of the dead body to realize death did not come instantly. Another emotion tugged at the corners of his mouth. Now, Paul, he scolded himself, gloating is not forgiving. His conscience tried to intervene. Tough. Jess deserved to die a miserable death. Just the way my parents and the others did.
The Black Dress Page 6