by T. K. Lukas
He pulled air deep into his lungs, letting the breath seep out through gritted teeth. “Yes. Of course.”
“I’m concerned about you and want to know if you’re all right—if there’s something I can do to help you. I’m making an observational assessment of your physical behaviors, and it appears you might be having a panic attack. Do you want to talk about it?”
Markus stared at her hand still resting on his arm. He drew in another deep breath. Sitting back in his seat, he turned to look at her. Their eyes locked for a long moment before he spoke.
“I don’t know if I can afford your professional services, Doctor McQueen.” Markus held his eye contact steady, his way of proving, if only to himself, he was back in control.
“I hope I didn’t offend you.” Sidney removed her hand from his arm.
“You didn’t.”
“I’ve had clients with similar issues. I’d be happy to listen.”
“It wasn’t a panic attack, per se. My post-traumatic stress disorder rears its head on very rare occasions. The episodes are so few and far between, I can’t recall the last time…. Anyway, I deal with them just fine. But, thanks for your concern.”
“How do you deal with them?”
“Mind over matter. Come on, we’ve got groceries to buy and a rodeo to get ready for.” Markus rolled the windows down and gave Rex the ‘stay’ command.
Sidney knew when to keep her mouth shut, but this conversation was far from over. While she felt concerned about him, she couldn’t deny that this situation troubled her. An image flashed through her mind—her running from a menacing figure intent on causing her harm—her needing protection—looking to Markus for help—but Markus, in the dark grip of a PTSD episode, unable to stand guard.
Her present sense of safety revolved around Markus’s being in full warrior mode, and the possibility of something weakening his strength distressed her. Images of the morning’s incident with the poachers flashed in her mind, and she reminded herself that Markus’s quick actions circumvented a dangerous situation. Surely, he’d be able to handle anything, despite his PTSD.
He has post-traumatic stress. He’s the one who needs help.
A little ashamed of her selfish feelings, Sidney felt a twinge of guilt for worrying more about her own situation than about this man offering protection. She was the one running from the person she called the devil, but Markus, too, was running from his own dark demons.
Fighting off the rising tide of her own panic attack, she grabbed her purse and followed him into the grocery store. As she moved through the electronically controlled entrance, cold air from the overhead vent rushed around her body. The chill stayed with her, long after she’d left.
CHAPTER 13
Fort Worth
Winston Knight stood at the concierge desk in the hotel lobby, far away from the busy front desk where visitors checked in and out. He spoke in a genial, matter-of-fact tone, the kind he used in court when trying to get witnesses to reveal they’d perjured themselves. The person on the receiving end was a tall, lanky fellow whose name badge identified him as Dwight Fincher, the nightshift manager. To Winston, the kid looked like he might be old enough to have just learned to tie his shoes or tell time.
Winston opened a manila envelope and handed the manager two photos. “Do you recognize either of them from your nightshift this past Wednesday night, leading into early Thursday?” Winston studied the manager’s eyes as the kid scanned the photos, the picture of Trevor obtained from an Internet search after his cellphone number was traced and the owner identified. The Wounded Warrior Project widely released the photo of the returning veteran and his dog, using the pair as models for publicity.
“Trevor stays here often,” offered Fincher. “Everyone knows Trevor and his dog, Gunner.” He handed the photos back and shook his head. “Don’t recognize the lady.”
“Look closely, son.” He liked using that word, son, when he could work it in. It built comradery. Winston splayed the photos on the top of the desk and waited. He adjusted his French cuffed shirt, drummed his manicured fingers on the counter, and pulled himself up to his full, artificially enhanced height. “Well?”
Dwight bent over the photos and gave them a perfunctory look. “Nope. Sorry.”
“She’s been missing since she left this hotel, a hotel known for its superior security. We think she may have left with the man in this photograph.” Winston already knew the man’s name from performing a background check on the cellphone receiving Sidney’s text. He just didn’t know if the man was also staying at the hotel when he received the emergency message. Having Dwight confirm Trevor’s name would tell Winston whether or not the kid might be hiding the truth.
“Shouldn’t the police be the ones asking these questions?” Dwight’s Adam’s apple worked up and down with each word before finally settling in the middle of his reedy throat.
“They’ll be here soon enough, asking their own questions. I got here first.” Winston opened an envelope and removed his business card, then slid it over to Dwight, a one-hundred-dollar bill cushioning its move. “She’s my wife, son. My wife is missing. She was last seen at your hotel. Did you see her leave with the man you’ve identified as Trevor?”
“Your wife is missing and may have run off with a man you want me to identify, and that information is only worth one-hundred-dollars to you?” The bobbing knob in Dwight’s throat vibrated with nervous excitement.
Taken aback, Winston paused, collecting his thoughts. Then, he leaned in close, his words no longer genial, his eyes a narrow slit. “Did you take a look at my business card? Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, sir. You’re the man who needs something I have and thinks it’s only worth a hundred. It’s just business, Mr. Knight.”
Winston pulled away from the counter and stroked his chin, tapping his index finger against his pursed lips. He had misjudged the craftiness of this skinny young man. That uneasy, momentary feeling of the world being tipped off its axis was quickly righted as he visualized a plan to put his world back into order.
“All right, son. I’m a businessman. I can respect your position. Name your price.”
“A thousand bucks.”
“One thousand?”
“A thousand should help me remember something.”
Winston reached into his wallet and peeled off twenty one-hundred dollar bills. “Let’s make it double-or-nothing. We’re both businessmen, but I can see you’re also a bit of a risk taker. Am I right?”
“Sometimes.” Dwight swallowed, his eyes on the money.
“You give me Trevor’s last name, then tell me whether or not you saw them leave together. Answer truthfully—video surveillance footage is easily subpoenaed. We both know this hotel has security cameras in every dark corner. Your truthful answer is worth one thousand dollars. Am I making sense so far?”
Dwight nodded.
“After that, you give me a choice of, say, ten possible room numbers my wife stayed in. If I guess correctly the room number, you lose. If I guess incorrectly, you get another one thousand dollars. Double. Or nothing.”
“I give you ten possible room numbers that she may have stayed in, and you get one, one guess to get it right. Double-or-nothing on the money.”
“That’s correct.”
“Hand the money over first.”
“It’s on the counter. Put your hand on it, son. You’re in control.”
“Nolan. Trevor Nolan. Yeah, I saw them leave together sometime after midnight.”
“All right. Fine job. You’re up a thousand. Now, give me ten possible choices which room my wife stayed in.”
Dwight entered some data into the computer and studied the monitor, searching for Sidney’s reservation. He took a note pad and randomly wrote down nine room numbers, plus the correct one, and handed the paper and pen to Winston.
Pretending to study the paper, Winston trailed the pen over each number before he settled on the one she’d stayed in: the rooftop suite.
He circled the correct number, dropped the pen, and slapped his palm onto the counter. The loud noise startled Dwight, who jumped like he’d been poked with an electrical prod. Winston scooped the money up and tucked the bills into his wallet.
“Hey! I didn’t even confirm that was the right room before you took your money,” Dwight protested. “How’d you guess?”
“It wasn’t a guess. I was with her part of the night.” Winston’s dark eyes gleamed.
Dwight’s face turned red, intensifying his freckles’ ruddiness. “Well, you’re a big fucker, aren’t you?”
“You’ll have to ask my wife, once I find her. And, I will.” Winston smirked. Turning, he strolled out of the hotel, his boot heels echoing in the cavernous, marbled lobby.
*****
The oak paneled walls in Winston’s office gleamed from their daily polishing. Heavy, black velvet curtains were drawn back to allow just the right amount of sunlight to stream into the well-appointed high-rise overlooking Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth. An original Frederic Remington hung on the wall behind his desk, the desk carved from mesquite wood and inlaid with a brass cutout of a Texas longhorn.
An unlit Cuban cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth as Winston punched the speed dial. He waited impatiently for an answer, his booted feet crossed and resting on top of his desk.
“Yes?”
“Next time I have to wait for you to pick up the phone after twelve, yes, I counted, twelve goddamned rings, Anton, you’re fired.” Winston almost chomped through the pointed end of his expensive cigar.
“I was busy,” Anton replied snidely.
“You’re not too busy for me to fire you.”
“No one else would do the jobs you pay me to do,” said Anton in a thick Spanish accent.
Winston didn’t argue, even though he knew the world was full of Antons, their greedy hands out, eager to make the kind of money one could earn working behind the scenes. After a pause, he said, “It’s confirmed. Sidney left with Trevor Nolan. You already have his cell number I sent you earlier. Get me his address. I’ll be at the club. Don’t keep me waiting.”
*****
Eli pulled her Range Rover into the driveway of the Mistletoe bungalow, exhausted from the drive to Dallas and back. She used to enjoy an all-day shopping excursion to the Galleria Mall. These days, even the thought made her want to take a nap. But, she’d promised Trevor lunch at The Oceanaire once he returned from San Antonio, and a promise was a promise.
“I’ll get your door, Mama.” Trevor let Gunner out before opening his mother’s door. “We should have stayed home and had tuna sandwiches. You’re still too weak to be dealing with traffic on the Tollway.”
“I wanted to go. Stop fussing.” She pinched his cheek with one hand, while the other hand gingerly grazed the stitches above her brow. “Besides, I’m tired of tuna sandwiches.”
They both turned at the sound of a car entering the driveway. A black sedan with dark tinted windows pulled up the length of the drive, stopping bumper-to-bumper against Eli’s Range Rover.
Trevor moved next to his mother and asked, “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.” He put a protective arm around his mother’s shoulder.
Two men, both wearing dark suits and dark sunglasses, exited the vehicle. The driver, Fredo, remained next to the car’s door, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Anton stepped out from the passenger side and approached, a thin smile on his pockmarked face.
“May I help you?” Trevor asked.
“Yes, you may, Mr. Nolan. Or, may I call you Trevor?”
“You can start by identifying yourself and telling me what this is about. If it’s about Girl Scout cookies, we’ve already bought all we need.”
Anton raised his right hand in a motion toward the left inside of his suit coat. Before he could produce anything in his hand, Trevor pushed his mother behind him with one hand, and with the other, drew his concealed handgun from its holster.
“Take your hand out of your coat,” Trevor demanded. “You’re on private property. I’m defending my property.”
“Easy. Take it easy. It’s a photograph I was reaching for.” Anton raised his hands into the air, palms out, shoulder high.
The big man standing next to the car, whose role clearly was more than that of a chauffeur, unfolded his arms. Fredo hovered his hands at his sides, ready for quick action.
Trevor motioned with the end of his Smith and Wesson. “Open your coat.”
Anton complied. An envelope protruded from the inside pocket. “See? No weapon. May I take it out and show it to you?”
“Finger and thumb. Nice and slow.”
He did as he was told, producing the envelope pinched between his thumb and index finger. He slowly opened the envelope, removed the photograph, and held it out for inspection.
Trevor shrugged. “It’s a picture of a pretty lady. Now you can leave.”
“Do you know her?”
“Who are you, and who wants to know?”
“She sent you a text message to your cellphone. Her husband wants to know how long you’ve been dicking his wife.”
“You’re not answering my questions. This conversation is over.”
“Is she here? Are you hiding Sidney in your mother’s home? I’m sure you can imagine how risky that is.”
“I’ve heard enough. Leave. Now.”
“I’ll leave, but let me give you something, first.” Anton held out the photograph.
“You can keep it.” Trevor’s hands remained on his weapon, his eye on his target.
“OK. I’ll read it to you.” Anton flipped the photograph over and read first the text message that Sidney had sent to Trevor’s phone. “But here’s the real message. It’s from this lady’s husband. Did you hear that? Her husband. His message to you. ‘You were seen with my wife as the two of you left the Blackstone together on the night she sent you the above message, per an eyewitness from the hotel’s management. The hotel’s security video surveillance would confirm this if necessary. Keep the hell away from Sidney if you know what’s good for you.’”
Released from Anton’s grasp, the photograph floated to the ground as he spun around and retreated to the car. The engine, already purring to life before the passenger door slammed shut, shuddered as it was thrust from park to reverse. The car shot down the drive, screeched to a halt, and then sped away.
Trevor holstered his gun. Grabbing Eli by the hand, he pulled her toward the house. “I’ll call the police. And her attorney. Are you all right?”
Eli stopped to scoop up the photograph. “I’m a bit shaken, but it takes more than that to get me stirred.”
*****
Aleck Stavros and Officer Hickson from the Fort Worth Police Department arrived simultaneously at the Mistletoe bungalow. Eli greeted them at the front door and escorted them into the dining room where Trevor had placed the photograph on the table.
“I’m afraid I touched it with my fingers in my haste to pick it up. I should have waited until you arrived, William.” Eli called Officer Hickson by his first name. His mother had been her life-long friend and she’d known William since he’d been in diapers.
“The man wore gloves, anyway,” offered Trevor. “There may not be any fingerprints to lift. Except for Mama’s.” He winked and smiled at his mother who appeared distressed despite her protest to the contrary.
“Sometimes we get lucky and find a stray print. These guys aren’t always the brightest when it comes to not leaving behind clues.” Officer Hickson deposited the photograph in a plastic baggie and sealed it. “Don’t worry, Eli. If your name comes up on any felony warrants when they run the prints, I’ll give you a heads-up.”
“It’s nice to have friends in high places.” Eli sat down, her legs suddenly feeling as if they might not hold her up any longer. She rubbed a hand across her forehead, the bandage that covered her stitches irritating her skin. “Trevor, pour me some water, please. Or
, iced tea. Either would be…”
“Here’s some water. Are you all right? You look green around the gills.” Trevor handed her a glass.
“I’m just a bit tired. If you’re through with me, William, Aleck, I think I’ll go lie down for a nap. Catch my second wind before Trevor and I go dance the night away. I think tonight’s our night for Hogg Heaven Club. Or is it Cowboy Exchange?”
Polite chuckles were followed by hugs. While Eli disappeared down the hallway to her room, Trevor finished with his statement for the police. Soon thereafter, Officer Hickson left with the photograph of Sidney. Aleck left with a new worry eating at his gut that Sidney wasn’t the only one in danger. He’d told Trevor as much.
With the door locked, the window curtains drawn, Trevor turned to Gunner. “After I send Markus an email telling him about our friendly, black-clad visitors, an afternoon nap’s not far off the agenda. Come on boy, let’s go.” As he passed by his mother’s door, he paused and listened. The light snoring sound he heard pulled the corners of his mouth into a smile.
*****
A crashing noise, like that of a window shattering startled Eli from her sleep. She bolted upright, dragging the covers up with her. Was it a dream? Fog in the room made the familiar shapes of her armoire and nightstand seem unreal. But it wasn’t fog. Eli began coughing. Sputtering. Choking. Thick smoke seeped in from under the door leading out into the hallway.
That noise!
She covered her ears. As the smoke alarm screeched out its warning, she ran to the bathroom and wet a towel, wrapped it around her nose and mouth, and ran toward the bedroom door with one thought in mind.
I’ve got to get to Trevor.
She pressed her palm to the door. Scorching heat radiated from the surface. She yanked her hand free—that exit was blocked by fire—she knew better than to open the door only to be eaten alive by flames. Running to the window, she struggled with the old, painted window locks, but they wouldn’t budge. In the nightstand—a flashlight. She grabbed it and hammered at the lock. It released. She shoved the window up, threw a leg over the sill, and slid out. Falling onto the lawn, she landed on her hands and knees.