Liar, Liar

by Lisa Jackson

  Oliver Got Rocks—or, more accurately, Oliver Got Stocks—the grandfather of her children, was beyond wealthy, having invested in a fledgling tech company that had taken off and was continuing to soar. And he wanted an heir. She’d learned all this from the private investigator she’d hired, the same P.I. she’d hired to check on her second husband, the magician from whom she’d learned all of her tricks and who had ended up banging his barely legal assistant. The P.I. had provided pictures, glossy full-color shots of Leo in oh-so-many compromising positions with the nubile and nimble assistant; in one particularly clear photo, the assistant, naked as the day she was born, was bent over the very box he used to showcase his tired cutting-a-woman-in-half routine.

  At the memory, Didi blew out a last disgusted breath of smoke, then stubbed out her cigarette frantically in the ashtray. No time to think of Leo “Kaspar the Great” Kasparian tonight. The only thing he’d been really great at was being a low-life adulterer. “Jerk,” she muttered.

  Traffic was light, her tires humming over the dry pavement, the Caddy’s engine a smooth rumble under its massive hood. A few red taillights were far in front of her, while a thicker stream of oncoming headlights glowing like hungry eyes approached on her left to speed past.

  She settled in, deciding to stop at a gas station once she crossed into California; there she would reassess her makeup and hair, because no matter what, she wanted to look spectacular for that old goat. Rotating her neck to get rid of a kink, she thought she heard something . . . almost a rattle, a sound she couldn’t immediately place, but out of the ordinary, something out of rhythm with the night.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She’d checked the Caddy herself after last night, and other than a few scratches from the cacti she had brushed as she drove like a bat out of the desert last night, nothing had seemed wrong with the car. No broken axle or flat tire or anything. But if something happened now . . .

  It was just her nerves, that was it. She was jumpy. On edge. And who wouldn’t be? She was going toe to toe with a wealthy and, as far as she knew, unscrupulous old man, bartering with him, challenging him. Deep in her gloves her palms began to sweat. She had heard that he’d declined in health, that some accident had befallen him, but that his mind was still sharp, so despite his frailties, he would still be a sly adversary.

  She heard the strange sound again. A click this time.

  She eased up on the throttle. What was it? On the outside or . . . ? She glanced into the rearview mirror, and her heart nearly stopped.

  Shadowed eyes glared back at her.

  Didi shrieked.

  The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her neck.

  “Drive,” he ordered in a harsh, guttural voice.

  Didi nearly swerved off the road, the front wheel edging onto the shoulder, bits of gravel flying up as she overcorrected, then straightened the big car. Her heart was a drum. Panic sent adrenaline through her veins. What the hell was this? Who was he? Oh, God, he was going to kill her! Right here in the desert! For a split second, she considered hitting the gas, then the brakes, throwing him off balance or crashing so that someone, anyone would find her. Help her.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he growled in that low voice, as if he’d read her damned mind.

  How had he gotten in here? Had he been hiding in the back seat all the time? Sweat blooming beneath her tight dress, she swallowed back her fear and tried desperately to think, to find a way to get out of this mess. With a sinking sensation, she realized he might have been hiding in her cargo hold, the spot she’d used to conceal herself or props or . . . oh, dear God, what did it matter how he got in? The problem was getting him out before . . . before . . .

  “Drive,” he repeated, his eyes slitting as he calculated her next move. “And keep it under the speed limit.”

  She did as she was told.

  As long as she was at the wheel, he couldn’t shoot her, could he? He’d risk his own life if he pulled the trigger and the car sped out of control. No—he needed her. For now. Until he decided to stop. If so, then she’d have to do something drastic. Crash on purpose or something. She glanced at the gas gauge. Half full. What would happen if she ran out of gas and the car slowed to a stop?

  Pure terror chilled her blood.

  Between now and then, she’d think of something. She had to. Her heart was hammering, and her hands shook on the wheel, her gloves slick on the inside with sweat, her breathing shallow, her mind racing.

  She had the pistol. In her purse. If, somehow, she could get the drop on him, maybe claim she had to stop at a rest area or gas station to use the restroom . . . he’d never go for that, though; she sensed it. But if she said she needed a cigarette and instead pulled out her pistol, could she get the drop on him before his finger squeezed the trigger?

  She had to try.

  She couldn’t just let him murder her.

  Somehow, she had to outmaneuver him.

  But the cold bite of steel against her neck reminded her that she was very quickly running out of time.

  CHAPTER 8

  As Noah slipped out of his hospital room after the last nurse had been called down the hall, he saw that the clock read 2:45 AM. He stole along the opposite corridor and saw an exit sign, then avoided the elevators and took the stairs, moving silently down the steps. He’d waited for hours, thinking that surely the cops would return and bust him for something, but his ruse of being asleep or comatose, whatever the nurses wanted to think, had worked.

  He’d waited until the hospital had grown quiet, the lights dimmed, the parking lot, from what he could see through the window, emptying to the few sparse cars that remained under the security lights. He’d found his clothes in the small cupboard wedged between the small bathroom and the door to the hallway and slipped them on. He hurt all over, especially his neck, where the damned bullet had passed through, and his shoulder, where he assumed he’d landed upon being thrown from the bike.

  From the moment he’d woken up, figured out where he was, and his memory of the night before had returned, he’d tried like hell to figure out what had happened in the desert, but only partial images of the events floated through his brain, and he couldn’t for the life of him piece together what he’d witnessed.

  Hopefully, the gaps in his memory were from the anesthesia, and he would eventually remember what had gone down. Nothing good. And the more he thought about it, the more he’d concluded Didi Storm was involved.

  What about Remmi?

  Where was she?

  Did she know?

  The questions had pricked at his brain, but he’d ignored them, forcing himself to concentrate on escaping unnoticed from Elizabeth Park Hospital. As far as he knew, no one had recognized him as he’d slipped through a door from the stairwell to the first floor. No one knew who he was. But that wouldn’t last for long. As soon as his picture was circulated, his friends or acquaintances, from school or the jobs he’d held at two diners and a gas station, would recognize him. If he wanted to get out, the time was now.

  He felt a prick of anxiety as he passed by a planter filled with fake leafy ferns and headed for the main doors. He had his collar turned up, for he was certain that his image would show up on the hospital cameras. But so be it. He had to get out. Before the killer returned.

  He slipped through the sliding doors of the ER when the desk attendant wasn’t looking as she concentrated on a phone call and some papers scattered on the counter in front of her. Once outside, he started jogging. His legs worked well, no problem there, but his arms and neck ached. He figured he still had some anesthesia flowing through his bloodstream from the surgery, and eventually it would wear off. Sometime, he’d have to deal with the pain, but so far, so good.

  He left the hospital and headed toward the heart of the city, the Strip, which was in the opposite direction from his house. But if he were caught on some of the hospital cameras covering the parking lot, it would seem as if he were heading south. Once
out of clear view of the hospital, he’d pull a U-ey and find his way home. Once there, he’d steal what he could from the rest of the old man’s money stash, assuming he didn’t realize that Noah had already tapped into it, then he’d start hitchhiking south. L.A. first, then San Diego, before he slipped across the border.

  He figured he could make it on his own.

  In all reality, he had been for the last few years.

  He hitched his jacket tighter around him, ducked across a deserted lot, and wound his way back toward the north, only to spy a police cruiser slipping down the road. He ducked back into an alley and flattened against the wall of a strip mall. Heart hammering, praying the cop car wouldn’t turn into the alley, the beams of its headlights illuminating the narrow space, he held his breath and heard a soft snort.

  “Hey, boy,” a growling voice said, “what you doin’ here, eh?”

  Turning his head slowly, pain shooting through his neck, he spied a wiry, bearded man with eyes burning deep in his skull. “Nothing,” Noah said.

  “You got any money?”

  “No . . . no, just out of the hospital.” Noah was sweating. The cruiser slowed as it passed the alley. He swallowed.

  “Drugs? Pills? Y’know, from the hospital.”

  “No!” he hissed. “Shhh.”

  “Hey, don’t you go shushing me none.”

  The cruiser rolled by, not turning in.

  “You on the run?” the guy asked, and he stepped closer. “The cops after ya?” In the darkness, his eyes glimmered at the thought of a possible reward.

  “I just don’t want any trouble,” Noah said.

  “A little late for that,” the man said, and in the darkness, Noah caught a gleam of silver in the man’s big hand. A knife of some kind. His guts hardened.

  “Leave me the hell alone,” Noah warned.

  “Just turn yer pockets inside out. Let’s see whatcha got.”

  “Nothin’,” Noah said. “I got nothin’.” And as the guy lunged, he sidestepped the blow, then hoisted a knee hard in the attacker’s groin. For years, he’d been ducking Ike Baxter’s attacks, and this guy, smelling of booze, was no challenge. With a hard kick, the bastard went down, sprawling, the knife flying from his meaty fingers. Noah swiped up the weapon, tucked it into his pants, and took off at a dead run, cutting across the street and through a parking lot, to head north again. The guy, if he’d even gotten up, didn’t give chase.

  He ran through the night, until his lungs started to burn and he had to slow to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. Ike would be at home at least until 6:30 in the morning, when he headed out, first for coffee and smokes with other members of the crew, then onto the job site of the latest building Peterson and Jones Construction was adding to the already sprawling landscape of Las Vegas. Noah would then make his move.

  He didn’t think of what he was planning as stealing. More like “borrowing” or even paying Ike back for the times he had lashed out and hit him, either with the back of his hand or a fist or even with a belt. That had ended a few years ago when Noah had grown six inches and put on forty pounds of muscle his junior year in high school. He had effectively taken on the older man, to Ike’s mortification. But as long as Noah had held a job and “contributed to the family budget,” Ike had left him alone. So he figured Ike owed him.

  But when he approached the house, not only was it dark, but it seemed empty. Even Roscoe was missing. Noah eased in through a window so as not to wake anyone, and he crept cautiously down the hallway, hardly daring to breathe, but there was no one at home.

  Were they out looking for him?

  Had he been IDed and the cops called them in for questioning?

  Had there been some kind of emergency?

  Or had they just packed up and left to avoid the creditors who called day and night?

  Had the killer found them? No—they would all be here waiting if that were the case. Right?

  He stood in the darkened, narrow hallway and wondered about where they were, the old house creaking around him. He should wait.

  For the killer to come looking for you?

  “Screw it,” he muttered under his breath as he crept into the den. He half expected Ike to be lying in wait for him, the two plastic bags spread on the desk, his expression murderous. But, again, the room was empty, and when he reached into the vent, he found the stash just as he’d left it. This time, he took the rest of the money and left the drugs.

  He thought about taking a vehicle but decided it was too risky. He had the switchblade for protection, so he walked to the main road, faced the sparse traffic, and stuck out his thumb. He felt a pang of regret for his mother. She would be worried. He’d have to call. But for Ike Baxter? He only felt a rush of freedom now that he was no longer under that toad’s thumb.

  Several cars passed, until a guy in an aging pickup rolled to a stop on the shoulder, his blinker still pulsing amber. Noah jogged to the side of the idling truck and noted that the door was a different color from the rest of the vehicle. As he approached, the driver, a farmer from the looks of him, leaned over and pushed open the door. “Where ya headin’?” he asked.

  “West.”

  “That takes in a lot of real estate.” The farmer, wearing glasses, three days’ worth of beard-shadow, and a Raiders baseball hat, looked him up and down as the truck’s engine idled loudly. “Any particular place?”

  “L.A.,” Noah said off the top of his head.

  A beat. “What happened to yer neck?”

  “Car accident. That’s why I’m hitchin’. Just got out of the hospital.”

  Suspicion clouded the farmer’s gaze. “Looks like maybe you should’ve stayed in another day or two.”

  “Probably. But, y’know, it’s damned expensive.”

  “True enough.”

  “Just got released.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “This afternoon.” Geez, what was with the twenty questions? He started to back away. “Look, if you don’t want to give me a ride—”

  “Oh, hell, hop in.” He pushed the door open farther, then straightened behind the wheel. “Just checkin’, y’know. You can never be too careful these days.”

  Noah thought a second, decided the guy was on the up and up, and climbed onto the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat before yanking the door shut.

  “Just last night, there was big trouble out here in the Mojave. You hear about that?” He cast a glance at Noah, then checked his sideview mirror as he eased onto the quiet road. “Put on yer seat belt,” he ordered. “Don’t want no ticket, not fer that. Stupid-ass law, if you ask me.”

  Noah complied, his shoulder aching with the effort, as he snapped the belt across his chest and lap. The pickup was warm, smelled of chewing tobacco and dust, the heater loud enough to nearly drown out the music, a country-western tune, that was playing through the speakers.

  “Anyhoo, last night there was a ruckus out on the desert. Car on fire, people killed, a motorcycle wreck, police all over it.” As if he’d finally put two and two together, he cast a sideways look at his passenger, but Noah feigned innocence.

  “Y’know, I did hear something at the hospital,” Noah said, drawing his eyebrows together as if in deep thought. “It’s all kind of messed up in my brain, but now that you mention it, I think I overheard a couple of the nurses talking about some explosion or something.”

  “That was it.” The guy nodded. “Yep.”

  “I was kinda out of it. Had surgery on my shoulder. Fell off a ladder.” God, he hoped the old coot was buying his story. “Anesthesia was still kinda messin’ me up. Don’t know what I heard and what I dreamed.” He flashed a you-know-what-I-mean kind of smile.

  “Oh, yeah, that shi—, er, stuff will make you loopy; don’t I know it?” The farmer was nodding to himself, and Noah relaxed a bit. The guy adjusted his hat and just kept driving. “Look, I’m goin’ as far as Barstow and you can ride with me ’til I get there; then you’ll have to find another
ride to take you into L.A. Shouldn’t be too tough. Everybody’s going to Los Angeles, if y’know what I mean.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  “You want coffee?” He motioned to a silver Thermos in the space between the seats. “It’s powerful, let me tell you. Thunder Punch or some such sh—, stuff. The wife brewed it. Always afraid I might drop off and fall asleep.”

  “I’m fine,” Noah lied. For the first time, he felt hunger and thirst, but he thought it best to wait until Barstow or wherever the guy left him off.

  “The name’s Tuck,” he said. “Ned Tucker, but I go by Tuck.”

  Noah panicked for a second, then said, “Riley Blackstone.” He combined two of his teacher’s names for the alias.

  “Nice ta meet ya. Now, you’ve had a long day. Go ahead and sleep if ya want. I’ll wake ya when we’re getting close to Barstow.”

  It sounded like heaven. Noah leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, but he didn’t intend to sleep as the truck’s wheels hummed over the asphalt and he recognized a Garth Brooks song floating softly from the speakers. He didn’t know where the hell Barstow was, but it was good enough. For now. Come daylight, he’d figure out the rest.

  For now, it was adios Ike Baxter, good-bye Cora Sue, and sayonara Las Vegas.

  And what about Remmi Storm? What would you say to her?

  She was his one regret, the intriguing girl who had thumbed her nose at popularity, who had been as out of step as he had been. A smart girl. Pretty, but not beautiful. Sassy, but not a smart-ass. He stared out the window. Yeah, he would’ve liked to get to know her better, even though the truth of the matter was that she was too young for him.

  Time to let her go, though.

  What would he say to her, if he’d had the chance?

  Good night. He wished he could take her on a date and tell her, “Good night,” at least once, but of course as far as tonight went? There wasn’t a damned thing good about it.