by Lisa Jackson
She knew she had to play dead, to let the slow-moving current carry her on its path. She caught glimpses of moonlight through scudding clouds, saw the ghostly roots of cypress trees rising above the water line, and knew she wasn’t alone in the sluggish water, that alligators waited, hunting. Yet she managed to slip slowly downriver, around a wide curve, and deeper into the woods, undisturbed.
She eased her way to the bank, praying that she didn’t disturb a nest of gators or step on a snake as she dragged her naked body out of the water by grabbing on to a thick, bleached root. She made her way through the soupy ground to a shack that was boarded over. She broke through a small window and found clothing three sizes too large, but dry. She quickly dressed and stumbled out to the road.
She made her way to the outskirts of New Orleans, hitching a ride with some teenagers high on marijuana.
“Anne-Marie?”
She heard and snapped back to reality and the dilapidated cabin where Ryder was still waiting for an answer. There was more to her story, of course. The most pivotal part that she hated to think about.
He was standing by the fire, warming the backs of his legs.
“I ran because he beat me, Ryder. That’s why I ran.” She closed her eyes at the admission, and though she knew she shouldn’t be ashamed, it was difficult to admit the hateful truth. How could someone who’d sworn to love her, to protect her, had vowed to be her husband for all their lives, been able to raise his hand to her, to beat her with a viciousness that could only be described as hatred?
“I put up with it for a while, believed him when he claimed to love me, begged me to come back, and promised that he would never hurt me again. He cried, and I wanted to believe him. At least in the beginning.” She saw the unasked questions in Ryder’s eyes, listened to them ricochet off the walls of her brain because she’d asked herself the same things—Why did you stay? Why didn’t you walk away the first time? Why didn’t you call the police? Why in the world did you let it happen more than one damn time?
“You didn’t tell me any of this.”
“I didn’t want you to know.” She couldn’t read what he was thinking, so she just went on. “I finally realized that he would never change so we split up. He wasn’t happy about it, but I was through being his punching bag. It wasn’t about love, it was about ownership. I was his, and though he really didn’t want me anymore, he sure as hell didn’t want anyone else to have me.” Her fists clenched at the memory. “So, I filed for divorce, met you . . . and it felt so good to laugh again, to fall in love, to . . . oh, hell, I don’t know . . . to live again without fear. I wanted it to work out with you and me. Wanted it so much.”
She blinked back tears. Refused to cry. She knew that she’d thrown herself into her affair with Ryder far too fast and her enthusiasm had more to do with breaking free of her old life than of starting a new one with him. She hadn’t really known him and had kidded herself about finding true love with a happy-ever-after ending.
Forcing her balled fists to unclench, she said, “I thought he’d sign the divorce papers, but I should have known better. Bruce Calderone doesn’t lose. Especially to his wife. My leaving meant that I’d won. At least to him. I was naive enough to think that with time, he’d cool off, see that our marriage was a big mistake from the get-go. I convinced myself that he would calm down and accept that we shouldn’t be together.”
Ryder was frowning hard, but he let her continue without comment.
“I made the mistake of returning to the house after we’d been separated for over a year to pick up some of my things. And . . . and he beat me within an inch of my life.”
Ryder’s jaw slid to one side, a muscle working under his temple. “So, what happened to him?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“He’s still your husband.”
Her insides shriveled at the thought. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. Something Ryder had mentioned earlier still bothered her. “You said that there were two reasons you wanted to haul me back to Louisiana, the first being to clear your name as that detective down there . . . what’s his name?”
“Montoya.”
“He thought you were involved in my disappearance.” She pulled her sweater from the pile of clothes she’d gathered on her lap and drew it over her head. “What was the second?”
Ryder was still standing by the fireplace. He’d scarcely moved a muscle.
“What’s the other reason?” she asked again. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that it isn’t because you missed my company.”
He was quiet, as if he didn’t want to admit to his reasons.
Though she’d sworn she didn’t care, she felt a niggle of disappointment. She’d kidded herself that he was different, that he wasn’t interested in her because of her looks, or her charm, or the fact that her family had money and someday she would inherit a small fortune. No, Troy Ryder had been different from the others, more into her as a person than anyone, including Bruce Calderone and Cade Grayson, had been.
She saw he wasn’t all that different, after all. And then, like a tidal wave that’s drawn far out to sea only to turn, she realized the truth in a crashing, drowning blow. “Let me guess,” she said, hating the thought. “You’re here because you think I have money.”
“Close.” His jaw was hard.
“You think my family will pay for me? You’re going to hold me for ransom?”
“Gettin’ warmer,” he said but didn’t seem to have any pride in his statement. And the drawl she’d once found so endearing actually grated.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not a ransom,” he said shortly. It was clear he was having some difficulty explaining himself.
Why would he chase her down, then spend these last months searching for her? Then she knew. “It’s a bounty. My damn family offered you money to bring me home and you accepted.” She let out a disgusted sigh and folded her arms across her chest, staring at him. “How disappointing.”
That actually looked like it penetrated, but she wasn’t going to let her romantic side believe something that wasn’t true any longer. “I can’t believe they even care,” she said bitterly. “How much am I worth, if I dare ask?”
It took him a moment or two, but then he bit out, “One hundred thousand dollars.”
“Cade Grayson’s still not answering,” Alvarez said from the passenger seat of Pescoli’s Jeep after calling twice. She’d left two messages for him to call her back.
“He might not have his phone with him.” Pescoli was driving, her wipers slapping off the snow. “He doesn’t seem the type to keep his cell with him twenty-four seven, and I don’t see him texting.” She turned off of the road leading down Boxer Bluff. “He’s probably pretty busy with his livestock in a storm like this. It’s not a picnic. If we have to, we’ll drive out there.”
Alvarez said dryly, “Conditions couldn’t be better.”
Ever since the meeting at the station less than half an hour earlier, Pescoli had been anxious, more anxious than usual. Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel as she followed three cars all creeping through town. Her mind was on the case, running through the newfound information about Anne-Marie Calderone. She felt a sense of urgency, as if time were her enemy and she had to keep moving—which was damn difficult as traffic was crawling more than ever, just inching along.
“Why don’t these people stay home?” she muttered when the lead car finally pulled into the parking lot of a pharmacy. The guy, ninety if he was a day, cruised slowly into a handicapped spot, his front tires running against the berm in front of the sidewalk.
“People still need their meds.”
“Then they should learn to drive in the frickin’ snow.”
Alvarez shot her a look and Pescoli gripped the wheel a little harder. She was tired, cranky, hungry, and had no use for anyone out driving in the bad weather who didn’t know how. No, strike that. She had no use for anyone driving and g
etting in her way.
Finally, the gas station mini-mart came into view. At the first entrance, she pulled into the parking area of Corky’s Gas and Go, the very station where her son worked off and on, and wheeled into an empty parking space. “Let’s do this,” she said, and she and Alvarez climbed from the vehicle.
Inside, a girl in her early twenties with huge eyes rimmed thickly in mascara was manning the cash register. The detectives flashed their badges, introduced themselves, showed a picture of Troy Ryder, and asked if she’d seen him.
“Oh, yeah,” the clerk said, nodding her head so rapidly the twist of hair that had been pinned on her crown threatened to slide off. “He came in last week, I think it was, bought a few things, gas and beer, maybe. He saw the Help Wanted sign in the window and was, like, asking about a job.”
“A job,” Alvarez repeated. Bells rang indicating another car had pulled into the pumps.
“Yeah. He, um, got turned off when I told him Corky, that’s the boss, insists on background checks and drug tests.” The clerk pulled a face. “Funny thing, y’know. He didn’t look like a druggie.” She lifted a shoulder. “But then everyone smokes weed these days. Oh. Sorry,” she added quickly, having forgotten she was talking to cops. “Not me. I don’t. I couldn’t. Corky would fire me. Corky, he’s not into that. Not just for the liability. He just don’t like any drug stuff. Won’t even sell papers for rolling your own.”
Good for him, Pescoli thought, wondering how her son had held a job here because she suspected that Jeremy, if not a habitual user, had dabbled with weed more than a time or two. However, it seemed he’d grown out of that phase of his life, or somehow managed to hide it from her.
“Do you remember this guy’s vehicle?” Alvarez asked, pointing to the picture of Ryder.
“Beat up old pickup, maybe? It had out of state plates, I think. I kinda noticed that because sometimes it gets a little boooring around here, if ya know what I mean. But it didn’t have any special marks or bumper stickers or anything on it, that I noticed. It was kinda like the type everyone else around here drives.” She glanced out the plate glass window as a man in ski gear filled the tank of his sedan.
She slid her gaze back to the picture of Ryder on the counter. “With him though it fit, y’know. He looked like a cowboy type. Well, again, like everyone else around here.” She rolled her expressive, mascara-laden eyes and then thought of something. “Wait a minute.” Her gaze zeroed in on Pescoli. “Aren’t you Jeremy’s mom? Jeremy Strand? I think I read about you in the paper awhile back. He, like, saved your life, shot a guy who was trying to kill you.”
Pescoli nodded. She was proud of Jeremy, how responsible he’d become, and she did owe him her life.
“Tell him ‘hi,’ from Jodi,” the girl said as a big bear of a man walked into the convenience store, a gust of freezing wind and snow following after him. “Brrr. It’s soooo cold.”
“Do you remember anything else about the guy in the picture?” Alvarez asked.
Jodi shook her head and the top knot wobbled precariously again. “He was in here for, like, half a second.”
She was about to turn her attention to the next person in line when Pescoli said, “Hold on a sec.” She took two steps to the candy counter and returned with an oversized package of Peanut M&M’s. “I’ll take these. You want anything?” she asked Alvarez and when her partner declined, paid for the bag. “I don’t need a receipt.”
Jodi rang up the sale, then turned her attention to the older man with the silvery stubble, rimless glasses, and a baseball cap with a John Deere logo. He was fishing in his back pocket for his wallet so that he could pay for gas, a pack of Rolos, and some chewing tobacco.
“For my grandson,” he said, half-flirting with the clerk.
“Oh, I like Rolos, too,” the girl said as Alvarez opened the door and Pescoli opened her bag of candy with her teeth.
“The Rolos? Those are for me.” The old geezer winked at Jodi and started pulling bills from a slot in the well-used wallet. “The tobacco? That’s for Josh.”
Perfect, Pescoli thought as the bag popped open and peanuts threatened to spill out every which way. She managed to corral them and thought, Way to go, Gramps. Get the kid hooked. Great idea.
Maybe it was a joke, the old guy’s way of flirting. Pescoli hoped so as she winced against the bitter cold, plopping a couple candy-coated chocolate peanuts into her mouth. Together, she and Alvarez half-sprinted past the gas pumps, where two cars were being refueled, to the spot where her Jeep was parked, already collecting snow.
“Want some?” she asked again as they climbed inside and she held the open bag toward her partner where Alvarez was dutifully snapping on her seat belt.
“No.”
“God, they’re great,” Pescoli threw a few more into her mouth, then tossed an empty coffee cup onto the floor in front of the back seat and dropped the open bag into her vacant cup holder.
“Maybe to ten-year-olds or pregnant women.”
“Especially ten-year-olds and pregnant women. But trust me, they’re for everybody.” Pescoli jammed her key into the ignition and sent her partner a don’t-even-go-there stare which Alvarez ignored as her cell phone rang sharply.
Plugging one ear to block out the ambient noise of the Jeep’s engine, she answered, “Alvarez.”
Pescoli strapped her seat belt into place, cranked the heat to the maximum, then slammed the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the gas station.
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . Okay, I got it,” Alvarez said. “We’re on our way.” She hung up. “Looks like we’re going to the River View Motel. One of the deputies on the search found out where Ryder’s been staying. The River View is on—”
“I know where it is. Just down the road.” Pescoli wouldn’t admit it to Alvarez, of course, but a few years earlier when she’d first started her affair with Santana, they’d sometimes stayed in little out of the way no-tell motels where they would have complete privacy. Away from her family. Away from her job. Away from Brady Long, the rich pain in the ass Santana used to work for. The River View, as well as a few other motels scattered around the outskirts of town, had been a great little rendezvous spot.
“We’re too late. He’s already checked out.”
“Damn.” Pescoli pulled into traffic which, because of the storm, was light. “Always a day late and a dollar short. But maybe he left something behind.”
“Maybe.”
Her partner didn’t sound too convinced or even hopeful, but surely something would break in the case. It damn well had to.
“It’s time to go,” Ryder said, packing up the last of the electronic equipment. “We’ve wasted too much time already.”
If Anne-Marie had hoped he would change his mind, that he’d hear her tale of battery and pain and give up the outrageous bounty placed on her head by her family, she’d been sadly mistaken. Yes, his eyes had reflected some empathy and a fierce anger as she’d explained about her husband’s abuse, but in the end, once she’d finished talking, he’d said nothing for a second, then had clipped out, “I didn’t know what you went through.”
She realized that, overall, he didn’t sound all that moved by her story. Instead, he was staring at her coolly as if she were some interesting, maybe dangerous, specimen. She suddenly understood that he was second-guessing her, wondering if she were lying again. Of course.
She walked to the window and flipped open the blinds. It was daylight and she saw both vehicles parked outside. Hers with more snow piled upon it near the sagging building she thought had once been used as a garage, his truck parked a few yards back, probably where he’d slid to a stop without headlights so as not to wake her. He’d parked carefully, wedging his pickup between two trees, guarding the lane so that no other vehicle could pass and she couldn’t get away.
She didn’t bother asking him how he’d sneaked in on her as he’d obviously been in the place once before to plant his electronic equipment, so he’d no doubt used his same bre
aking-and-entering skills.
Snow was still falling and the tracks of both vehicles were covered, his less so as it was parked beneath a canopy of branches and had been stationary for a shorter amount of time. Was she really trapped? If she couldn’t convince him to let her go, would she really be forced to return to New Orleans with him?
Thinking of reuniting with her family, of the disappointment carved on her father’s face, the disgrace in her mother’s eyes, and the hurt on her grandmother’s proud visage, she knew she couldn’t return to Louisiana. Ever. Even if she could face the condemnation and shame, there was her husband, who seemed to have vanished, as well. No doubt she would be a suspect in his disappearance, or, worse yet, if he should suddenly show up in New Orleans again, she would have to look him in the eye and see him smirk at her fear.
Her stomach turned over at the thought of him. No. She’d never go back. Ryder wasn’t going to take her. He just didn’t know it yet. Mind turning with thoughts of escape, she started to close the blinds, then stopped. Had she seen something outside the window, some movement that she’d caught from the corner of her eye? She squinted hard, staring through the shifting veil of flakes, but whatever it was had disappeared.
Another deer perhaps.
Or, more likely, a figment of her imagination.
She told herself it was nothing, but couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something outside wasn’t right. Then again, nothing inside the dilapidated cabin was right, either.
“You can see why I can’t go back,” she tried.
“If you’re telling the truth.”
She knew it. The bastard didn’t believe her. “Come on, Ryder. You think I made that story up?”
“What I know is you’re a liar, Anne-Marie, and a good one, if I recall.”
“Everything I said to you was the God’s honest truth. Who would make up something so . . . so brutal?”
“Who would rob their damn grandmother?”