by J. Conrad
Reyes raises an eyebrow.
“I accidentally killed Ayden in self-defense when he attacked me on my stepmom’s property,” I say. Right on cue, a vignette of the bloody blue eye ring consumes my mind. My face heats, and a light sweat prickles my skin. Or is that liquid guilt?
“I see,” Reyes says. “Would you mind giving me a brief rundown of what occurred?”
I tell him. I include that I’ve never recovered full recollection of the incident but that there are, of course, police and forensics reports for reference. There are also records of the statements I made to Officer Davis that day before the amnesia kicked in and what I told the detective at the Round Rock Police Department the day after, post memory loss. Reyes might already know these things, but I say them anyway.
Once the deputy is satisfied with that information, I summarize the situation with Nick and the Lamar property, including what Trent and I found. Now Reyes hardly bats an eye. Scribbling furiously, he notes whatever he deems significant and interjects a question now and then. But I keep my answers terse. I wonder if Reyes will still think juveniles are to blame after this.
“All right, Ms. Owen. Mr. Lemend,” Reyes says, giving us each a nod in turn. “Unless you have any further questions for me, I’ll be on my way.”
We have questions, but none he can answer. After a few final words of caution, the deputy sheriff shakes our hands and departs.
I lock the door behind him and collapse onto a wooden kitchen chair. With my elbows on the table, I let my body relax. The sweat on my back begins to dry as I think about what Reyes told us. I glance at Trent. “Kids.”
Trent huffs. “Yeah. We’ll see about that when we look at the footage from the security cameras.”
“We’ll see,” I say. At the same time, it’s hard to believe well-dressed, haughty Nick Pearlman stood out there and threw rocks to antagonize me further. And Rance might have broken a nail, so that makes him unlikely suspect number two. The unnamed person was petty enough to waste his time and agile enough to disappear right under the deputy’s nose. Whether Nick, Rance, or someone else, I know it wasn’t kids.
With our pistols beside us on the kitchen table, we review the security camera footage on Trent’s laptop. It doesn’t show much because whoever threw the rocks stood out of range. We can’t see anyone or even a part of their body, only the projectiles sailing into the wall. The throwing angle gives us the idea the person must have stood near the street, not far from the field beside the house.
“Do you want to get a hotel for the night?” Trent asks. He rubs his face and folds the pc closed.
“Anywhere is better than here.”
We take separate vehicles and meet up at Candlewood Suites in Georgetown. When I open the door to our room with the key card, the faint scents of chlorine bleach, white tea, and fig perfume are oddly reassuring. The bright oak furniture adds a warmth to the surrounding colors of taupe and light gray. Inviting and safe. I weakly toss my suitcase on the bed.
Trent digs through his own bag and piles his clothes on the white comforter. Then he paces, searching around for something. “Did you see me bring a small case in?”
“No. Why?” I ask.
“I thought I brought the gun bag with the extra ammo,” he says.
I wonder how the hotel staff would feel about us coming in here packing not only two pistols but extra magazines and rounds should we somehow run out between now and dawn. Because of a change in Texas law, we no longer need concealed carry licenses to bring our guns, but still. I scan the floor and bed but don’t see anything besides our two suitcases.
“No. It must still be in your truck. I don’t mind going out to get it.” I’m too worked up to sleep anyway. I’ll be lucky if I get two hours in before I have to go to work tomorrow.
My arms, legs, and back are stiff and sore from all the exertion at the warehouse, so I recline in the toffee-colored stuffed chair. I stretch. I rub the pulled muscle near my shoulder—I should never have strained to take the lid off the homemade coffin, but I wanted to help. I shut out the memory. There’s no point in getting sick again.
“I don’t want you going out there alone,” Trent says. “I can go, or we can go together.”
His cell phone rings. Trent swears under his breath before picking up his mobile and answering. Without saying a name to clue me in on the caller, he takes the phone into the bathroom and shuts the door. He’s never done that before. I frown as I stare after him.
“It’s not her fault,” Trent says. The door muffles his voice, but not enough to keep me from hearing.
Is Kyle asking Trent about trespassing on the recently sold property turned crime scene? That’s doubtful. It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. I chew my cheek and contemplate. A greedy craving seizes me, like when I listened in at Chupacabra. I creep across the short, tan carpet and put my ear by the door.
“It’s not her fault,” he repeats. “She’s not going to lose her job. Not for something that was my idea.”
Interesting. Maybe it’s Kyle, after all. That’s not impossible, just unlikely. Resolving to ask Trent about it later, I decide to make myself useful in the interim and retrieve the case. After that, I’m going to bed whether Trent is still on the phone or not. We’re not in rural Williamson County now, and our surroundings are perfectly safe. The hotel parking lot is well lit, and I kept an eye on the rearview the whole way here. I saw no black Mercedes or any other vehicles following us this time. The switchblade is in my back pocket, and I stick my cell phone in the other one. My pepper spray is in the front. I tuck my pistol in the holster under my jeans.
I grab the keys off the bed and make my way to the elevators. The hallways are empty. I pad along the short, red and taupe patterned carpet, nearly walking face-first into a potted fern next to the elevator door because I took an extended glance at the turn in the hallway. Downstairs, I take note of the receptionist at the desk. A mid-forties lady with dark blonde hair, her name tag says “Nicole.” She looks up and smiles at me as I pass her on my way to the front doors.
As I step out into the parking lot, I take in my surroundings. The hotel faces the Interstate 35 access road—nice and visible, just the way I like it. Intermittent whirs from fast-moving highway drivers reach my ears even at this hour. To the left of the hotel grounds is an empty field, and to the right is a short, wooded area that conceals this property from another business. I’m the only one out here. Aside from vehicles in the parking lot before me, the coast is clear. The light of many streetlamps glints across the shiny auto exteriors on the black asphalt.
I jog straight to Trent’s truck. When I pull out the keys and see the remote, I curse quietly. In my exhausted state, I accidentally grabbed my own set of keys, not Trent’s. I sigh and smack them against my leg. But when I turn to go back to the hotel, my eyes find something odd. I freeze and hold my breath.
21
About fifty feet from me stands a man. With his back to the entrance of the building, he faces me directly. The man is dressed head to toe in black in a ski mask and long coat. Nick? This ridiculous criminal attire is so obvious that for a moment, I wonder if this is someone’s idea of a joke. Then the man starts toward me.
I gasp and back up but run into Trent’s Colorado. My body hits it so hard the truck rocks back and forth on its tires. The alarm goes off, and I scream. My hand jerks wildly, and I nearly drop the keys. I shove them in my pocket. As I practiced, I tug my pistol from its holster and aim.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” I yell.
The man complies. He stops, and I keep my Sig trained on him.
Images of “what ifs,” of putting a bullet through Nick Pearlman’s skull in the hotel parking lot, almost make me lose my nerve. Who in their right mind would believe I killed two men on two different occasions in self-defense? My heart hammers so hard and fast that a wave of lightheadedness threatens to melt me. This can’t be happening—shouldn’t be happening, but it is. Now I either have to face it or suffer t
he consequences.
For a moment, a thin idea courts me. Trent will hear the alarm. He’ll recognize it and come out. The hotel receptionist has also surely heard it by now. She’ll see what’s happening and call the cops.
The man gets moving again. He saunters toward me slowly at first, his feet barely making a sound. Then he breaks into an easy jog. I see-saw back and forth near the Colorado, the .38 caliber held firmly at the end of my rigid arms.
“I said stop!”
He doesn’t this time. If I fire from here, I risk hitting someone inside the hotel. The glass doors and lobby area are right behind him, and he knows it. But if I take off running, I’ll bring myself away from the hotel, away from people, which is exactly what this asshole wants. He gives me no choice. With my stiff hand, I rack the Sig’s slide and chamber a round. I aim for the pavement by the man’s feet and pull the trigger.
Bang!
Flecks of asphalt pop on impact. The man jumps—no, levitates. He lands on unsteady feet and dances backward before he turns and darts toward the field.
My unprotected ears ring from the gunshot. For a moment, my fuzzy hearing mutes the deafening boom and the blaring truck alarm as I dig my mobile out of my back pocket and call Trent. I can’t tell when—or if—Trent picks up. Maybe the call goes to voicemail.
“Come outside,” I yell. “Now!”
I start toward the doors of the hotel but stop short. The man is closer now. He didn’t run into the field and disappear but instead went around the outer row of cars and made his way back. He’s calling my bluff.
I wave at the glass hotel doors. The receptionist’s navy-blue polo shirt floats above the desk as she stands at attention, craning her neck with the phone to her ear. She pins her gaze on me. Even from here, I can see her panic, her frantic movements as she talks into the receiver. The Colorado’s alarm keeps screeching, pounding my eardrums as I plan my next move.
Trent, please come out. Please hear the alarm and come out, I silently beg. But I don’t have time to wait for him.
I struggle to keep my legs under me. The racing of my heart dizzies my senses, and I’m afraid I’ll pass out again. Shooting is risky. Running is riskier. Staying here will end badly. But no matter how fiercely the terror courses through me, I have to choose. The man is probably thirty feet from me now. Too close. I aim at the space to the man’s left, but my arms shake so much it’s harder to steady my weapon. I’ll probably wind up hitting him. How will I prove to a jury that I wasn’t trying to kill an unidentified man who didn’t injure me and didn’t draw a weapon himself—at least not yet? And at the same time, why the hell do I have a gun if I can’t use it to protect myself?
I growl between clenched teeth. Trying to stem my panic attack, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans in turn and get a better grip on the Sig. The man approaches silently, only twenty feet away now as I take better aim. I fire a shot to his left.
Bang!
The bullet widely misses him as intended. He ducks out of sight behind a forest green sedan. With the crisp smell of gunpowder in my nostrils, I force out the breath I was holding. I shove the pistol in its holster. Willing my quivering legs to comply, I propel myself away from the truck and surge into a run. I beeline straight for the hotel doors. The receptionist will let me in, or she won’t. As I sprint from Trent’s pickup, the man runs along behind the row of cars. He keeps up with me, his black silhouette flashing through the empty spaces between vehicles as he matches my pace.
If I can get inside first, we can lock the doors and steer clear of the entrance until the cops come. But if what’s-her-name won’t let me in, I’m screwed. I’ll have to shoot Nick and will probably go to jail. As I near the building, he veers toward me and blocks my way. He’s very close now. Almost close enough to touch me. He knows I don’t want to blow his brains out.
The receptionist bursts outside and jogs to the edge of the porte cochère, a little distance behind the man. I don’t know if she can tell he’s wearing a ski mask from her perspective, but she notices my reaction as I dart back and forth in an attempt to make a break for the building.
“You need to leave right now! I’ve called the police! Leave right now!” The woman glares at the creep’s back. Then her appalled gaze alights on the pistol in my hand. She turns and runs back into the building. Oh—she thought that he was shooting at me.
Where the hell is Trent? That truck alarm could raise the dead. It still wails, its siren vibrating my lungs and chest and amplifying my fear. The man ignores the receptionist. He poises himself as he makes ready to grab me right in front of the building where the raised security cameras record everything we do.
He’s too close now, but it’s now or never. I have to act. I weave and dodge before aiming straight for his chest. My finger touches the trigger. He lunges at me. With a skilled pivot and twist, he knocks the gun from my hand by sliding alongside me and hitting upward against my arms—right at the moment I fire. The barrel jerks vertical, and the bullet sails straight up. The recoil flips the pistol somewhere behind my head.
His nasty surprise stifles my scream. I lash out in adrenaline overload as the man tries to get his hands around me. His black-gloved hands reach and claw, barely missing me each time. If he gets a hold of me, it’s over. I know that from Korey. So, I turn and run. But even as my sneakers drum the pavement, I wrench the can of pepper spray from my front pocket.
The man takes another swipe, and I swerve just beyond his grasp. His fingers brush my arm but don’t get a grip. If it’s Nick under that mask, he must be in great shape. He comes at me with agile, measured motions, like he’s used to it. I just hope I’m faster. I have to blast him as soon as possible—the next chance I get. The knife is my last resort since him taking it from me would be worse than not having it at all.
Just as he forces me to turn and head away from the hotel—the worst direction I could go—a few male voices call from the building.
“Hey! Hey! Leave her alone!”
My heart surges with hope, but I can’t see-saw anymore. If they’re going to help, they better do it quick. Though Trent’s truck alarm blares continuously in the night, he hasn’t appeared. What the hell is he doing? What phone call could be so important? But in the back of my panic-stricken mind, I know it’s been barely over two minutes since I first set eyes on the man. And that’s what no one seems to understand about crime—the act is often over before anyone notices or can do anything. Even the ridiculous stuff. Stuff like this.
I dart across the parking lot, my feet slapping out a frantic rhythm on the asphalt. The pavement ends. I sprint into the small, wooded tract on the other side. I wonder if the guys who came out in response to the commotion will chase after us. I clutch my can of pepper spray with a death grip as I crash through the underbrush. Small twigs snap and break under my feet. The wind fans my cheeks as I push myself into a breakneck run, and trace scents of gasoline and burnt cooking oil reach me from somewhere unseen. The man closes from behind, his feet pounding the earth after me. My thoughts go blank. Blood rushes through my veins and into my pumping legs. I risk a glance back. As hard as I push myself, he’s getting closer.
A few low-hanging branches loom, and I shove them out of my way. I trip. I stumble on a short, hidden tree stump and almost fall. My palms sting as I catch myself on the wiry terrain. I push myself back up and keep running as fast and as far as the land allows. The man closes on my heels. His footsteps slow, and I know he’s also moving the branches, so he can pass without getting whipped in the face.
With a couple more strides, I dash out of the wooded area and into another parking lot. This one’s behind a closed gas station. I dart past, wanting to bring myself within view of the feeder road. It’s currently vacant, but maybe a driver on the interstate will see me. It’s worth a try. As my feet thunder over the pavement of the empty parking lot, I turn to see the man almost on me. My speed isn’t helping much after all. I don’t understand how Nick can be so fast. Continuing to sprint over
the asphalt, I make it to the other side of the lot and surge into the adjacent field. After this, only a subdivision lies ahead.
My legs burn, and my lungs strain with a heated ache. I have to push myself harder. I must. The injuries from my abduction still pain me sometimes, and an old stab wound near my groin flares up and sears like fire. If I can get to one of the houses, maybe I can knock on someone’s door. Maybe a kind soul will help.
A hand grabs my shoulder. A crushing weight bears down on my back, and I stagger forward. My knees buckle, and I stumble and fall. I let go of the pepper spray. I have to—I’m barely able to shield my face from slamming into the ground in time. The man has caught me.
Disarmed of my weapon, I lash out in a frenzied panic. I need the knife now, but I can’t get to it. I scream, wriggling forward and clawing at the earth with my fingers to try and pull myself away from him. That failing, I struggle and thrust my hands in his face, at the same time sliding my knees up and pushing against his chest. His leather glove scrapes my cheek as he slaps me hard across the face.
I scream again, but no one comes.
22
Help!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Fire! Fire!”
I can’t understand why no one has followed us or where Trent is, but there’s no time to think about that. As I struggle against the man on top of me, I realize he isn’t all that heavy. He’s lighter than Korey was. I remember because Korey’s weight could hold me in place. But although light, the man is still strong, and his vise-like fingers compete with mine as he tries to get hold of my neck with both hands. He grasps for it, finally clutching my throat and squeezing.
But he made an error. I’m able to draw my knees up higher. I put both feet against his stomach and push back with all my might. I strain, my eyes bulging as he throttles me, and with a grunt, I heave him off me. I don’t know how I do it, but I do. He releases my neck and puts out a hand to catch himself from flying backward.