Lost in America

by A. S. French

  ‘That’s fine by me. Hopefully, we’ll have heard from the FBI by then.’

  Once that was sorted, she’d be able to leave the town free of any guilt since she expected it to lead to the apprehension of those who killed Caitlin Cruz. There was still her brief romantic entanglement with Officer Eleanor Campbell to think of, but she didn’t expect the married woman to have too many sleepless nights over her.

  Jim dumped the plates in the kitchen and brought her a cover. He left her to settle into the sofa and closed the bedroom door behind him. She expected the bodies in the cabin to be identified sooner rather than later, and it shouldn’t take too long for the FBI to find out who was running the trafficking website. With that information, she was confident even small-town idiots could put two and two together, especially with Moore around. There was intelligence about him which she rarely saw in law enforcement.

  But what to do about Campbell? She’d call her first thing in the morning at the police station. She’d be leaving in a few days anyway, so did it matter that Eleanor Campbell hadn’t been entirely truthful before they fell into bed? The conundrum rattled through her head for an age before she settled into sleep.

  For the first time in ages, her night was uninterrupted by wayward dreams, and all she thought about was returning to England. The relaxation overtook her, so it was a full thirty seconds before she realised someone was standing over her. She rose to tell Moore to go back to bed, her hand up to give him a friendly punch. It was that action which saved her life.

  The wire was over her head and aiming for her neck in an instant. Only it didn’t reach there and cut into her fingers instead. Searing pain sliced through her flesh as the attacker pulled her towards him. Her blood seeped on to the wire and her skin as her hand gripped against the garrotte.

  A Donald Duck mask peered down at her, and for a second, she thought she’d been transferred into a nightmare version of Disneyworld, a place she’d always wanted to escape to as a kid in that terrible house. The memory of her father’s horrible smirk forced her knees up, so she twisted her side to bring her leg around and knee her attacker in the gut. He stumbled back and into the TV with a crash loud enough to wake the Devil. He didn’t fall and sprinted out of the door as she tore the wire from her and threw it to the floor. By the time she’d scrambled outside, the would-be killer had vanished into the night.

  ‘What happened?’ Moore was at her side with a gun in his hand.

  Stabs of electricity ran through her bloodied fingers. She held them up, so the scarlet glistened in the moonlight.

  ‘Did you leave your door unlocked?’

  The lines on his face stretched into one confusing point as he turned from her and stared at his apartment. She followed his gaze: the window appeared locked, and there was no damage to the door.

  ‘I guess I must have,’ Moore said apologetically. ‘We’d better get you to a hospital.’ He peered at her blood dripping on to the floor.

  She used her good hand and pushed past him into the apartment. ‘No need for that. I only want a cloth to clean this up and stop the bleeding.’

  He followed her inside, having the sense to lock the door this time. She was in the tiny kitchen, washing the blood from her fingers.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ she said.

  He opened a drawer and removed a bandage, wrapping it around her hand once she’d cleared most of the damage away. He threw the bloodied towel into the bin.

  ‘Opportunistic burglars are rare in the town. I’ll call it in now.’

  Astrid held her hand up to stop him. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll recognise those eyes when they try again.’

  ‘Try what again?’

  ‘This was no burglary, Jim; they were here to kill me.’

  The certainty of it hit her at the front of her skull like a slow nagging hum.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

  That was the sixty-four thousand dollar question she was still trying to answer. The FBI was dealing with hunting down the trafficking operation; it was nothing to do with her anymore.

  They went into the living room. It was five in the morning, and she guessed neither of them would get any more sleep. She searched for something to drink, hearing the clink of beer bottles as Moore brought one for each of them. The glass was cold against her good hand, the liquid chilling the back of her throat. She was surprised how refreshing it was. What she’d had in the bar must have come from a bad batch. That and the pain in her fingers made her feel alive and forget about the ache in her ribs. She pushed her face against the window. The sun would be up soon.

  ‘Perhaps this is all about you, Astrid.’ Moore slumped into the sofa where someone had tried to kill her. ‘This Agency you worked for; do they have a grudge against you?’

  She stared through her reflection in the glass and into the town outside. Was it true? Would her former employers have gone to all this trouble to punish the only operative to have walked away from their services? Since coming to America, she hadn’t spoken to George, her mentor and leader of the Agency, but she trusted him completely.

  ‘Something happened between that woman at the bar and me.’

  ‘We know it did: she beat you up after you insulted her and the band.’

  ‘It was more than that, Jim; there’s something I can’t remember about that night.’

  He sat up straight. ‘That’s what I said to you. There’s information in your head about Cruz you can’t recall yet, but you will.’

  Astrid sipped on her drink while he finished his. Then he went to get ready for work, and she registered for the first time what he wore: a pair of striped pyjamas looking like they came from the Ark. She’d slept in her clothes, and now her body itched like hell.

  She tried to recall the events outside the bar while he showered and shaved, but with no success. Something lurked at the edge of her memory, a shadow beyond her reach, and it frustrated her. There were plenty of shades in her mind she kept confined, but she needed to bring this into the light.

  He stepped into the room as she tried to resurrect that shadow. He’d changed from his nightwear into a smart suit, his skin glistening from his wash and clean.

  ‘You scrub up well, Detective Moore.’

  He brushed off her compliment. ‘There’s food in the fridge if you want breakfast. Then you should come with me to work; it will be safer for you there.’

  Astrid shook her head. ‘I’ll go down the road for food. The fresh air will do me good, and there’ll be no trouble when I’m around others.’

  She had to eat before her mind could work, and she didn’t fancy going to the police station yet.

  ‘Tom’s Diner is ten minutes from here, on the way to the station. We could go there together.’

  ‘No, you go to the station and see what progress the FBI has made on the website. I’ll walk there, see a bit of the town, and meet you later.’

  He didn’t look happy with it, but didn’t talk her out of it. ‘Okay, Astrid.’ He reached into his pocket and handed her a key. ‘Here’s the spare to the apartment, and I’ve written my cell number on this paper.’ She took both of them even though she still didn’t have a phone. ‘Have a shower if you want and ring me when you’ve eaten.’

  She nodded in agreement and watched him leave. Then she went and had that shower, settling under the water and feeling the bruises on her ribs. There was no chance of her leaving Bakerstown now.

  Someone would pay for what had happened to her.

  And for what happened to the Cruz family.

  9 Noise Noise Noise

  The sun caressed her face as Astrid left Moore’s apartment, with her throat and ribs aching in synchronised stereo. She reached into her pocket for her phone, finding space and remembering she’d lost it during the fight. But she didn’t need it when she could reach into her mind and resurrect a playlist from memory, selecting her favourite 1980s tunes. The sounds of Ghost Town by The Specials kicked into her skull
, and she checked her surroundings.

  The Bakerstown Brewery overshadowed everything as she strode down the Main Street, and she understood why the town’s economy was wrapped up in that large, ominous building. Perhaps it was some of their brew which kick-started her on the way to the mess in the bar the other night.

  Once she left the brewery behind, she reached an old shopping mall, empty that time of the morning apart from those workers limbering up for another day at the rat race. It was then all parks and wild spaces, a chance to enjoy nature and wallow between the large trees everywhere. There was a river somewhere, she could smell its freshwater aroma in the air, but she hadn’t seen it yet.

  After she’d left New York, Astrid’s journey through America had been a welcome change from her life in Britain. She loved spending time in cities, they were in her blood, but having the chance to relax in a slower, quieter environment had helped to dampen the hyperactivity which had plagued her mind for as long as she could remember. Not that small-town Americana had turned out to be as calm as she’d expected.

  She shook the thought from her head and reduced the volume in her mind as she entered Tom’s Diner, finding a dozen customers there. It would be an exaggeration to say the place went silent and everyone stared at her, but there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere as she strode to the counter. A server with the weight of the world inside her eyes pushed a menu at her. There was no attempt to smile. Astrid scanned the contents and spoke to her.

  ‘Bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and tea if you have it.’

  She wandered over to an empty booth next to the window, staring at the door. Behind her were a family of two kids and their harassed looking parents. Opposite them, a couple in their seventies devoured an impossible pile of pancakes. At the counter, two blokes constructed out of American steel and steroids glared at her through testosterone-fuelled eyes, and she remembered them from her previous visit: the ones who were upset she’d spoken to Angie Delaney. She counted down the minutes in her head before the trouble started.

  Astrid peered out of the window, imagining the town a hundred and fifty years ago, a place full of adventurers, prospectors, thieves, and rogues. The Ranch House wasn’t far from where she sat, maybe a five-minute walk. She pictured it again, searching her memories for what was missing from that night.

  I drank too much, didn’t eat, didn’t dance, and got too wrapped up in that terrible music. And that’s why I ended up outside in a fight with Stella Starr. That was it. Nothing else happened until Caitlin Cruz helped me; help which left her and two kids killed.

  A different server brought her order over, this one younger and with a genuine smile on her face. It said Katy on her name badge.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Scotland.’ She handed Astrid her cutlery. ‘Have you been there?’

  Astrid warmed her lips on the tea. ‘I’ve visited a few times. You’ll need a big jumper in the winter.’

  Katy blushed and leant a little closer to her. ‘Do all the men wear skirts?’

  ‘Only the ones with the biggest thighs.’

  She spoke through a mouthful of food as Katy slipped from the table with a massive grin on her face.

  Astrid raced through the meal, savouring the bacon and fried eggs between gulping at the tea. She chewed as she continued to prod at the shaky memories in her skull, sitting in isolation as a stranger in a strange land.

  She wasn’t alone for long. The two slabs of cowboy beef from the counter stood in the place vacated by the server. The way they scowled at her, they looked like they’d give an aspirin a headache.

  ‘Do you remember us?’

  She put down the fork to look at them. ‘How could I not? Every time I walk through a sewer, I’m reminded of your faces.’

  They twitched in their spot, all nervous energy and hyperactive eyes. ‘We warned you once. You’re not wanted here, girl.’

  There was Astrid’s favourite word again. She punctured the eggs and watched the yolk run into the sausages.

  ‘What you want doesn’t interest me, boys.’

  ‘We kicked the British out, and we don’t want you back.’

  He had the voice of a two-digit IQ, the sort of man confused by anything which didn’t sound and look like him. His mouth was writing a cheque his brain couldn’t cash.

  Astrid crunched a slice of toast between her lips before speaking. ‘You guys fought in the Revolutionary War? That’s impressive.’ She glanced at the weapons holstered on their hips.

  ‘Do we have to make you leave?’

  They were taller and broader than her, and they had those firearms. She glanced around the diner, observing the rest of the customers with their heads bowed, their attention fixed on anything but the drama unfolding nearby. The staff had disappeared behind the counter, and she understood nobody was coming to help her.

  But she didn’t need any help.

  She reached into her mind for her escape maps. Map one had her shoving a fork into the closer bloke’s neck and the plate in the other’s face. But that way led to the possibility of collateral damage and innocent customers getting shot. Map two had Astrid inviting her new friends outside for a more personal chat, but unless she stayed close to both, there was the chance one would fire at her before she disabled them. Map three was her doing as they said and leaving without finishing her food, hoping they wouldn’t shoot her in the back in front of all the witnesses.

  ‘We won’t tell you again, girl.’

  Someone famous once wondered why small towns were small. From experience, Astrid considered it might be because it takes more generosity, neighbourliness, humility, and decency to live in one. Everyone knows who you are and what you’ve done. Folks who get above themselves, or get in trouble, or who can’t get along, tend to move to the city where poor reputations and bad attitudes disappear in the crowd. But these two hadn’t bothered to pursue that route.

  She picked a sausage from the plate and stood. Astrid peered at it as if it was the worst piece of meat she’d ever seen.

  ‘Why do you Yanks have such small sausages? They’re much larger in England.’

  She tossed it into the remnants of the egg and dropped money on to the table. Then she strode past them, never turning to see what they’d do. She held her hand on the exit door for a second, the cold metal of it cutting through the bandage covering her damaged fingers. Then she stepped outside, and the early morning sun raced across her face.

  Astrid turned left and headed towards the police station and her rendezvous with Detective Moore. But there was something she had to do first. She strode down the street for five minutes until she came to the Ranch House, gazing at the neon sign of a cowgirl riding a steer.

  What aren’t you telling me?

  She stepped around the side and to the rear of the building, hoping something there would trigger her memories of that night. She expected to find broken bottles and squashed cans, but the place was clean. It smelt of bleach and antiseptic and could have been part of the local hospital.

  Astrid was about to return to the entrance when the noise of running water stopped her. It came from behind the barrels near her. She moved across to see what it was, surprised to discover a heavyset man emptying beer down the drain.

  ‘Have you got a bad batch?’

  No wonder the drinks from the other night made her ill. He turned to her, but continued what he was doing.

  Is that why I got drunk so quickly that night?

  His eyes narrowed and peered right through her. ‘I don’t know about that, lady. These barrels are out of date, so they’ve got to go.’

  He continued his job, and she returned to the front of the Ranch House.

  The hotel was two minutes in the opposite direction. That’s why she’d ended up there that night, because she was too lazy to go any further. She remembered the place as a dive bar, and she adored dive bars.

  The ones you love always hurt you.

  Courtney had told her that when Astrid was thirteen
. She knew it was a lie because her parents never loved her.

  Perhaps another visit inside would jog her memory. The lights were on, so she went to the door and pushed it open. She took a deep breath, breathing in the fumes of the stale alcohol and dried sweat. The place was empty, apart from a pony-tailed hipster cleaning glasses behind the bar. He acknowledged her presence, but said nothing.

  Astrid turned to find where she’d sat two nights ago. The taste of booze on her lips nudged her brain, slipping her into the booth where she’d drunk herself into near oblivion.

  She’d got off the bus at six, found the hotel and booked her room by seven, then was on her first drink by eight. Then what happened? Astrid called the barman over with a flick of her head. He had large plastic circles covering both ears; they looked like he’d torn them from a shower curtain.

  ‘We only serve hot drinks.’

  ‘I’m after information. Were you working here Saturday evening?’

  ‘Not me, lady; that was my shift off. But I’ve heard about you.’ Biology had designed his grin to irritate.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘You got your ass kicked by Stella.’ His eyes were dirty brown, like rainwater clinging to the edge of a sewer. ‘Then you killed a woman and her kids.’ He curled his lips at her before returning to the bar.

  Astrid dismissed him as soon as he left, the scene around him transforming into the night she was there. She’d closed her eyes and was back there then. The sound of the band playing on the other side of the room replaced the silence. Some shocking country and western tune about a bloke’s broken heart. The place was barely lit, her vision adjusting to the gloom and the surrounding bodies. People argued or flirted in the shadows, while lonely souls stared into their drinks while positioned on their barstools.

  She’d started on beer, some terrible local drink bearing little resemblance to what she was used to at home, before moving on to tequila. Perhaps it came from the hometown brewery after all. She’d tried one more time to ring Olivia, to speak to her sister, but there was no answer, and then the battery died before she could try again.