Liar, Liar

by Lisa Jackson

  She followed her mother into the living room.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Didi insisted, and she swept her clutch purse from the table and snagged the briefcase from a closet where she’d stashed it the night before. Remmi had sneaked down the hallway a couple of times during the night to peer into the living room and observe her mother’s distress. She’d spied the open briefcase and the bills littering the table. It looked like a boatload of money, but it had infuriated Didi, and Remmi had caught the words “son of a bitch” and “bastard,” so obviously it wasn’t the amount Didi had requested.

  For Adam.

  She’d sold Adam—that’s what it was.

  That’s why she’d dressed him in Ariel’s clothes and put the little girl in her brother’s blue outfit. Didi hadn’t just picked up the wrong onesie in the dark. Nope, it was all part of her sick child-selling plan.

  “This is an out-of-town appointment,” Didi told her, “so I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Where?” Remmi demanded.

  “A private residence. Not in Las Vegas. So there’s some travel time involved. But it’ll be worth it.”

  She stepped into the hallway, but Remmi called her back, “Mom?”

  “What, luv?” She poked her head into the room and gave her a disarming smile.

  “Weird stuff is happening. There was that fire in the desert last night. A car exploded.”

  “Oh, I heard. It was all over the news.” Didi, wearing long black gloves, waved off her daughter’s concerns.

  “A man died.”

  “Honey, all kinds of awful things happen, I know.” She sighed loudly. “But it’s nothing to do with us, and though it’s sad for the man, we can’t let bad things that happen in the world control us, you know. There are always going to be hurricanes and floods and fires and the like, or . . . or that Y2K thing they’re already talking about, the computer problem, or the end of the world as some people see it, you know, as if we’re all going to vaporize at the turn of the millennium. You can’t worry about all those things.” She flashed a bright Didi smile. “We have to live our lives. Don’t worry. Look, when I get back tomorrow, we’ll go shopping or something, have a girls’ day.” Then, as if realizing something really could go wrong, she hesitated. “Now, listen, nothing’s going to happen, but if it does, if I don’t come back by tomorrow at this time, seven at night, then . . . Well, I’ve left some money for you, in the top drawer of my bureau, and there’s a piece of paper with a woman’s name on it.”

  “What woman?”

  “My friend. Trudie. Her number, too. If, for some unforeseen reason, I don’t show up, call her, and she’ll tell you what to do.”

  “What? No! Mom, what is this?”

  Didi’s face turned to stone. She reached out, grabbed her daughter’s arm, and held it so hard that even through the gloves, Remmi felt the points of her fingernails and the strength in her grip. “I don’t have time to explain, Remmi. Now just do as I say.”

  “But . . .”

  The tense fingers tightened. “Just do it. We’ll be okay. All of us. Just do your part.”

  “Mom, I don’t think—”

  “Good.” Remmi thought her mother was going to slap her. Instead suddenly, Didi released her, and for a second, tears shone in her eyes, but she quickly pushed them back. “Don’t think. Don’t worry. For God’s sake, honey, just trust me. If only just this once.”

  And then, before Remmi could bring up Ariel or anything else again, Didi was gone, clipping down the hallway in her high heels, the garage door opening and shutting and the sound of the Cadillac’s big engine sparking to life.

  Seneca had watched the entire exchange with wide, knowing eyes. “It’s best if you just do as she says.”

  “But . . . what about Ariel? Seneca, do you know what happened to her?”

  Was there just a flicker of understanding in the woman’s gaze? “I think it would be best if you quit worrying so much. It will do none of us any good.”

  * * *

  “You can do this,” Didi told herself as she drove through the streets of Las Vegas. Traffic was heavy, and pedestrians clogged the sidewalks, so she couldn’t step on the gas. No, she had to be cool, even though the big car, now dusty, caught a lot of attention—something she’d always longed for and now thought might not be a good idea.

  She was armed with a plan, and it wasn’t a bad one. As horrible as she felt about how things had gone down the night before, she was determined to set things right. She’d been conned. Big-time. And despite the massive, painful hole in her chest, she was going to make certain that, at the very least, she was paid. As agreed upon.

  She’d spent the last twenty-four hours unable to sleep, the image of that hellish explosion haunting her, the thought of her missing child crippling, but she was also pissed as hell. And she figured anger trumped sadness.

  She had to get what was rightfully hers. Because this was the big payoff. She needed it. Her act was going nowhere, and let’s face it, she wasn’t getting any younger. It wasn’t as if Hollywood had her on speed dial.

  This time, she wasn’t going to mess around. This time, she planned to go right to the source of all the money. And she didn’t bring Adam for an exchange. At least not yet.

  That, if necessary, could come later.

  Her heart squeezed a little at the thought of giving him up, but she reminded herself it was only temporary.

  Oh, yeah? And what about Ariel? Hmm?

  She nearly crumbled inside, then straightened her spine, her gloved fingers clenching over the big steering wheel. “Shut up,” she yelled at that tiny, nagging voice in her head. She couldn’t be deterred by emotions. Not now. There was a time for grief and regret, if necessary . . . when the time came. For now, she’d hold out hope and onto determination to get what was due her.

  For her family.

  Jaw set, gloved fingers tight over the steering wheel, she wound her Caddy through a clog of cars, vans, trucks, and buses within the city to join a steady stream of traffic heading west, into the setting sun. A few more hours, that was all she needed, she thought, as she found her sunglasses, replicas from the 1960s, and slid them onto the bridge of her nose. And for security? In case she was walking into the proverbial lion’s den, she again had her pistol, though she hoped she’d never have to use it. She’d never shot at anyone in her life.

  “Always a first time,” she told herself and caught her reflection in the wide rearview mirror. “Always a first time.”

  * * *

  Noah opened a bleary eye and blinked.

  Where the hell was he?

  The room was small, with a window, and he was lying on a bed. Some kind of bed with crisp sheets and—

  Holy shit, he was in a hospital room. The underlying smell of disinfectant was barely discernable, but it lingered a bit.

  As the cobwebs cleared from his mind, he surveyed his surroundings, a monitor over his head steadily beeping, a tray nearby with an empty urinal on one end and a glass of water with a bent straw on the other. A window with shades at half-mast, a vast parking lot stretching below; his room had to be on the second, maybe third floor. He squinted as he stared outside the window.

  Dusk was settling into the city, a few street lamps blinking on, and as the building had an L shape, he noticed the Emergency Room entrance, probably the very spot where he’d been brought in. Elizabeth Park Hospital. He’d been here before as a little kid when he’d broken his left arm after falling from the roof of the shed.

  What the hell had happened?

  The desert.

  The motorbike.

  Didi Storm’s white Cadillac.

  And the explosion that rocked the desert floor and the resultant fire that had burned wildly.

  And . . . the gunman. That was it, a tall man carrying a rifle and backlit by the conflagration, pointing the end of the barrel straight at Noah. His heart began to race at the memory, and he heard the monitor begin to beep faster. He move
d on the bed and felt pain in his right side, then noticed that his arm was bandaged, as was his chest.

  How long had he been out of it? He remembered nothing after the gunman had approached. His throat was dry, gritty, and he tried to reach for the glass at the near end of the tray table. Pain shot through his shoulder, and he froze.

  At the sound of footsteps and a rattling cart approaching his half-open door, he closed his eyes again, forced his breathing to slow, and waited.

  Someone came into the room and puttered around his bed. “Hey, there,” she said, a woman’s soft, comforting voice. “You awake?”

  He didn’t move. Didn’t so much as twitch. Not even when a thermometer was tucked under his tongue or a blood pressure cuff was placed around his arm or his wrist was lifted by cool, gloved hands.

  “Hello,” she said again, this time closer to his ear. “Can you hear me?”

  When he didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard her, she waited, as if expecting him to raise an eyelid or lift a finger. He didn’t, but he could feel her presence as he managed to regulate his breathing and, from the sounds of the monitor, his heartbeat.

  “Helen?” another woman’s voice, lower and raspy. “Is he awake?”

  “I thought so, but no. Not responding.” A beat. As if both women were looking at him. Staring at him, as if they knew he was faking it. He kept breathing normally, or what he thought would be normally.

  The second woman asked, “Has the doctor been in?”

  “Yes, earlier.” Helen again.

  Noah strained to hear.

  “More surgery?”

  More? He’d been operated on? For what?

  “No. Not right away. At least Dr. Spears doesn’t think so, but it’s still early. Take a look at his vitals, Barb. All normal.”

  “Hmmm. You’re right.”

  He felt someone edge closer, and it was all he could do to lie still as he heard a page from the outer hallway. “Doctor Barrows?” A smooth woman’s voice was audible from the hallway. “Please pick up a courtesy phone. Doctor Phillip Barrows.”

  The second woman, Barb of the deeper voice, said, “I guess we’ll just have to wait.” He felt her breath on his face, as if she were leaning over him, studying him.

  He wanted to swallow hard but didn’t. Finally, she must’ve straightened, her breath no longer warm against his face as she added, “And so will the police.”

  What? The cops? They were waiting? He almost gasped but stopped himself.

  “They’re still here?” Helen asked.

  “No. Left this afternoon, but they’ll be back to speak with Mr. Doe here,” Barb said, clarifying. “They’re trying to find out who he is.”

  “Someone must be missing him.”

  Noah’s mind raced. So far, apparently, they didn’t know who he was. That was good, he thought, as the cops had always been trouble.

  “They’ll figure it out. My brother-in-law’s a detective, and he said it’s only a matter of time.” Barb again. “If they can’t figure it out soon, the cops will ask the public for information. Put out his picture, hope to ID him.”

  That was no good. No good at all. He began to sweat.

  “They already have, haven’t they? After that car was burned out in the Mojave?”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I think they’re trying to find out who it belonged to. The owner was inside, still behind the wheel, and the license plate was nearly destroyed. Or that’s what I heard.” Barb, it seemed, had more information. “But the police will want to find out what our Johnnie Doe knows about it.”

  Johnnie Doe? As if he were five years old? Despite himself, Noah bristled a little and had to fight to keep feigning sleep.

  Helen said, “He’ll wake up soon, don’t you think? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

  That answered one question, Noah thought, but there were still plenty of others. Plenty.

  “I hope. But he was pretty beat up from the accident. Contusions, cracked ribs, concussed. Lucky he’s got no broken bones.”

  “Lucky?” Helen repeated with a snort. “If you call getting a bullet in the neck lucky. I doubt it was an accident.”

  He’d been shot? In the neck. And didn’t die?

  Helen continued, “The way I see it, someone tried to pick him off his motorcycle. Unless you think a hunter was out target shooting at dusk and mistook a kid on a bike for what? A wild boar? Or mule deer? Or damned coyote? Was he drunk? A motorcycle makes a loud noise, and it doesn’t sound like any animal.” Helen wasn’t buying the accident theory for a second. “It seems to me someone shot him in the neck, no less, and he lost control of his bike. He’s just damned lucky the bullet missed his carotid and his jugular.”

  “Not to mention his spinal cord.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Barb said, “That’s what I mean by lucky.”

  He sensed that they moved away from the bed, on shoes that barely made a sound, with Helen saying, “I’ll check on him again after my break . . .” Her voice became soft and muted, as if she’d stepped into the hallway on the other side of the partially open door.

  “Good.”

  Then Helen said, “You heard there was a guy who came asking about him? Someone who didn’t look much like a reporter to me.”

  “The tall man with the moustache? Cowboy type.”

  Noah nearly pissed himself. Every muscle in his body tightened. The killer. That’s who they were talking about. In his mind’s eye, he saw the rifleman approach, long gun in his hand, moustache visible in the wicked glow of the conflagration.

  He’d been here? Holy crap!

  “That would be the guy,” Helen confirmed, and he had to strain to hear her, even opened his eye a slit to make sure he was alone. A quick scan, and he saw no one, but the shadow near the cracked door suggested the two nurses were still close. He chanced sitting up, straining to hear the conversation over the escalating beat of his heart.

  Barb asked. “Who did he say he was?”

  “That’s just it. He didn’t really. Claimed he was an uncle of a kid who stole a motorcycle and went missing. Wanted to make an ID, but wouldn’t give a name the police could cross-check with missing person reports or something like that. Anyway, when the questions got a little too hard, the guy just up and left. Before Ted from Administration could get up here. The whole thing seemed fishy.”

  Barb said, “But he was caught on camera.”

  “Not much of him. Baseball cap and sunglasses, two days’ growth of beard along with the moustache. The police have the security tape.”

  As their conversation faded, the shadows in the hallway fell away. Noah let out his breath. He’d survived. Barely. But, obviously, the gunman had come looking for him. Panic shot through him, adrenaline spurting, and it was all he could do to contain himself so that the damned heart monitor didn’t give him away. He forced himself to lie back against the pillow and feign sleep again.

  He had to leave. Soon. Before the cops started nosing around and before the gunman returned. He’d wait, until the middle of the night, when it was quiet, and then some way, somehow, he’d escape. Not just this hospital, but Vegas, too.

  He knew this city, had grown up here, and the hospital was only a mile from his old man’s place. His legs weren’t broken, so he could walk that far, steal the rest of the money he needed, and hitchhike. Denver sounded good. Or Seattle. Maybe Anchorage. Or . . . Mexico. L.A. to San Diego, across the border to Tijuana, and disappear, a gringo no one would recognize.

  Through slitted lids, he glanced out the window again, and for a second he thought of Remmi, wondered what she was doing. Then he closed his mind to her. She was a part of this, if not knowingly, then by association with her mother, who was in the desert last night. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he thought about her. Even if she knew nothing, she was guilty because she lived here, and in six short hours, Las Vegas and everyone within its city limits would be dead to him.

  * * *

  When P
lan A doesn’t work, then initiate Plan B.

  Or so Didi reminded herself as she sped across the desert, the lights of Las Vegas a distant glow behind her. L.A. was in her sights. Around five hours, if she followed the route she had planned, on I-15 across the desert and over the mountains and into the greater Los Angeles area—well, actually a little farther west to Malibu, to an oceanside home, of course. Nothing but the best for Oliver Hedges, the old bastard.

  She clicked on the lighter and, as it heated, found her cigarettes in her purse. She had hours to drive and could smoke as much as she wanted or needed. Cracking the window, she lit up, holding her Virginia Slims in one gloved hand, the steering wheel with the other. She considered taking off her gloves—they were a bit of a problem—but decided instead to stay “in character” and channeled Marilyn Monroe, sitting sexy and sultry behind the wheel.

  She glanced at the briefcase on the seat beside her, filled with the phony bills; she’d culled out the good ones. She would throw all those fake fifties and twenties into the Hedgeses’ conceited, self-righteous faces! Reignited anger made her grind her teeth at the gall of the con. If Brett had died in that fiery heap, he deserved it.

  But not Ariel . . . not precious . . . Her heart twisted painfully. “Stop it!” she growled at herself, then hit the gas with a spiked heel. The Cadillac tore around a slow-moving van that was having a little trouble staying in its lane, the person behind the wheel sleepy, drunk, high, or maybe just terrible at controlling his vehicle. It didn’t matter. She blew past and stared through the bug-splattered windshield at the night sky, dark and flung with thousands of stars, the road a ribbon cutting through the desert on her way to the mountains and beyond.

  She wondered, not for the first time, if she should have brought Adam as a bargaining chip with the old man, but decided she’d made the right decision in leaving the baby with Remmi. Better to hold back. She’d already lost one child through recklessness and being overly cocky. Her throat closed as her thoughts wandered to Ariel, but she dragged them back from the dark chasm of grief to the reality of the here and now; there would be time enough later for grieving and chastising and feeling downright horrible. Right now, she had to focus on the job at hand.