by Cross, Mason
Mulholland was a strange road, built a long time ago for a lot less traffic. It wound past the homes of the stars but also into darker, rural patches that felt like the precise middle of nowhere. Lots of sudden twists next to steep drops. Kelly wasn’t overly familiar with the road under the best of circumstances, but tonight she might as well have been on the other side of the planet. It already seemed like hours since she’d left Sloan’s. She risked a glance at the clock on the dash and realized that it had been only twenty-five minutes.
This had seemed like a good idea twenty-five minutes ago, when getting behind the wheel of Sarah’s new toy had been an attractive proposition. Ten minutes later, when the heavens had opened, Kelly had immediately regretted her decision.
Ten or eleven miles from the bar to Sarah’s place, give or take. She’d made good time in the first, blessedly dry, ten minutes—traffic was light on the 405 at this time of night, even in the automobile capital of planet Earth. How far to go, then? Five miles? Six? In these conditions, that could take her all night.
Kelly held her breath and feathered the brake as she took another corner that was a little tighter than it had appeared. It was difficult to judge, with the rain and the darkness. There were no streetlights up here, and the headlights illuminated a pathetically small patch of road in front of her before dissolving into the darkness. This was stupid, she thought again. This was . . . crazy. She ought to pull off of the road at the next opportunity—one of the overlooks perhaps—and wait out the rain.
Only, there was no way to know how long the rain would last, and Sarah was counting on her. Sarah’s dad would be home at one a.m., and if the Porsche wasn’t in the garage, he’d check her room for sure.
Incredibly, the rain seemed to build in intensity, as though mocking her. The respite between swipes of the wipers was becoming less and less effective.
Kelly suddenly became aware that the radio was still on, tuned to a local classic rock station. “Black Hole Sun” by Soundgarden. The corner of her mouth curled upward for a second as she imagined what her own dad would have to say about that, about a record from the mid-nineties being labeled as “classic” anything.
And then she was jerked back into the moment. In the heartbeat between the pass of the wipers and the fresh sheet of water, the Porsche’s headlights picked out a dark shape of something in the road, obstructing her lane. The wipers delivered another strobe-like snapshot of the road ahead, and she realized the shape was earth and rubble—a landslide from the slope on her left-hand side, leaving a dangerously tight gap in the road. Holding her breath, Kelly braked and aimed for the slender space between the pile of debris and the drop at the edge of the road.
Sarah is gonna kill me, she thought, as the driver-side front wheel crunched over a brick-sized rock while the drop loomed on her right-hand side.
And then the Porsche squeezed through the gap, missing the bulk of the obstruction and narrowly, wonderfully, keeping all four wheels on the road.
She exhaled in a short cough, grateful and guilty all at once, like she’d dodged a bullet. She skirted the remainder of the landslide, eyes peeled for oncoming headlights. Without taking her eyes from the road, she moved one hand gingerly from the steering wheel for the first time in ten minutes, reaching over to snap the radio off. Chris Cornell’s voice winked out, leaving only the staccato beat of rain on glass.
One less distraction, she thought as she moved her hand back to the wheel. One less—
A loud bang pierced the rhythm of the rain like a gunshot, and she felt the rear of the car slide out from under her. A blowout?
The car was sliding to the right, toward the drop. Kelly yanked the wheel hard left. The vehicle ignored her, continuing its inexorable swerve toward a steep two-hundred-foot slope and oblivion. There was no barrier, because the road was relatively straight here. But that assumed your car was under control.
Oh shit. Steer into the skid? Steer away from the skid? What are you meant to—
As abruptly as the swerve had begun, it stopped. The steering wheel locked and the car righted itself, and Kelly leaned into the brake, hearing a nails-on-the-blackboard screech of metal as the Porsche hugged the very lip of the road and came to a full stop at the edge of the drop.
A brief moment of euphoria—she’d been certain she was about to die, and somehow she was still alive—and then a snatch of worry. Had she totaled Sarah’s new Porsche? In the bar, Sarah had claimed not to know how much it had cost, but Matt had said something under his breath—with his usual mild disapproval—about a hundred thousand bucks or so. The rain battered down, unabated, as though trying to prevent her from thinking, from organizing her brain to the point where she might begin to piece together what had happened and what she might do next. But before she could start to think about the thousands of dollars of damage she might have done, those worries—and every other thought—were banished by the realization of a new danger.
She was sitting in an immobile vehicle, in the dark, in a rainstorm, on a narrow highway, next to a steep drop.
Frantically, she grasped for the door handle, finding it after an eternity and pushing the door open. She clambered out of the car and into the deluge. It was like diving fully clothed into a lake. She put a hand on her forehead to keep the rain out of her eyes and squinted at the road, looking one way and then the other. Seeing no lights, she reached back into the car and snagged the keys from the ignition, then scurried around the back to open the trunk, before remembering that this was a Porsche: engine in back, trunk in front. She made her way around to the front of the car again, hoping to find a coat, an umbrella, a tarpaulin . . . anything. Nothing. The trunk was utterly empty. Damn it.
She glanced again at the road, then circled back around the Porsche, inspecting it for damage as best she could. Miraculously, the bodywork looked to be unscathed, the silver paint job gleaming through the curtain of water. When she reached the rear driver’s side wheel, she saw the real damage. The tire was shredded, to the extent that the rims of the wheel had partially cut into the road surface. The source of the unholy screeching as she’d lurched to a halt, she guessed. She cursed out loud this time and wiped rain out of her eyes again.
A flash of light made her jerk her head up again. Another car, a hundred yards away, though she couldn’t yet hear the engine over the elements. He was headed straight for her. Kelly ran across the road and toward the direction of the oncoming vehicle, waving her arms and yelling. Dressed in a black halter top and jeans, she now wished she’d picked something more visible to wear. The car, a Ford, flashed by her, swerved when it saw the grounded Porsche, and narrowly missed clipping the rear driver’s side fender where it stuck out into the wrong lane. The asshole had the temerity to lean on his horn as he continued on his merry way. Kelly prayed for him to hit whatever obstruction had eviscerated her tire, but the Ford continued past that point and cleared the landslide on the opposite lane before its taillights disappeared.
Kelly was soaked to the skin now. She ran back to the car and flung the door open once again. Her bag was on the passenger seat, looking somehow tawdry on the expensive leather upholstery. She grabbed it and sat down again behind the wheel, deciding to risk the danger of another car in exchange for a few moments’ respite from the rain. They tell you to leave the car and stand by the road in a situation like this, but they weren’t the ones getting soaked. She’d see the headlights in time anyway . . . wouldn’t she? She angled around in her seat and kept her eyes trained on the road behind her as she dug around in her bag, lifting and sifting the detritus that had accumulated in there and locating her phone by touch. Her hands closed around the familiar slim rectangle and she brought it out. There was no point in calling Sarah to tell her what had happened. Assuming she even picked up, it would only ruin her evening with Josh. AAA wasn’t an option, either. Kelly didn’t own her own car, and unless her manager spontaneously decided to double her paycheck, she doubted she would be buying one anytime soon. That left one opt
ion—her dad.
But when Kelly hit the button to activate the screen, it remained stubbornly dark. Goddamn Apple. Four hundred bucks for a phone and it couldn’t give you more than eight hours of battery life, if you didn’t use it too much. And she’d used it a lot in the bar—taking pictures, checking Facebook, calling Matt when he was late, Googling a cocktail recipe to settle an argument . . .
Great. Dead car, dead phone. Could the night possibly get any worse?
Kelly got back out and entered the monsoon once more, looking both ways down the road. Nothing. She considered her options. She doubted she’d be physically capable of pushing the car over to the side of the road even on four good tires. With one of them blown out, there was no chance. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere with no coat, no phone, and pretty damn near no hope.
And then, a glimmer of light.
From up ahead, she saw headlights wink out and appear again as they cleared a bend in the road. She crossed to the opposite side again and this time stood as far out in the middle of the road as she dared. She waved her arms and yelled, much louder this time. The knowledge of the dead phone gave her hollering renewed urgency.
Fifty yards from her position, the vehicle began to slow as the driver spotted her. As it grew nearer, Kelly saw that it was some kind of pickup truck. That was good; he might have a winch or something to drag the Porsche off the road. But she was getting ahead of herself—he needed to stop first. Kelly waved again, actually jumping up and down this time, worrying that this driver might pick up speed again and blow right by her like the last one. But he didn’t. The dark pickup—it was impossible to discern even a vague color—pulled smoothly to a stop beside her, engine running. The driver’s window rolled slowly down. Kelly peered into the darkness within. Between the rain and the absence of streetlights, she couldn’t make out the driver.
“Hello?” she said unsurely.
Finally, the darkness shifted a little and a head appeared at the window. A man, she thought, although she couldn’t be sure. A deep but quiet voice spoke out, almost lost beneath the sound of the rain.
“You need some help?”
The guy wore a dark blue or green baseball cap with no logo, the brim pulled down so that three-quarters of his face was in blackness, with only a clean-shaven chin visible.
Kelly swallowed and felt a chill that had nothing to do with her soaked clothing. She wasn’t sure if it was the voice or the instinctive primal sense of unease that came from not being able to see his face properly, but all of a sudden she felt a strange urge to tell the driver that it was okay; she’d wait for the next car.
But that wasn’t an option. On a night like this, she’d be stupid . . . no, crazy—to pass up the offer.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Yeah, I really do need help.”
2
FORT LAUDERDALE
Saturday night, downtown Fort Lauderdale. It felt like I was a long way from the beach. Although the sun had gone down hours before, the bar felt noticeably cool in comparison to the outside. Too cool for my liking. Like stepping into a walk-in refrigerator. I paused by the door to survey the room, scanning for the important information.
It had a low ceiling and walls that had been painted black a decade or two ago. A relatively large floor space, sparsely attended for a Saturday night. Maybe a couple dozen customers. On the far side, the bar ran almost the length of the room, tapering off in a curve before it reached a corridor signposted for the restrooms and the fire exit. Circular tables adorned with candlesticks inserted into empty liquor bottles. I descended two steps from the entrance and started to cross the floor, scanning faces as though looking for a friend. Most of the clientele were arranged into couples and small groups, except for a lone blonde at one of the corner tables who’d looked up and then away again as I’d entered the bar. I didn’t linger any longer on her face than on any of the others. Aside from her, the crowd was made up of an unremarkable mix of professional barflies and lost tourists.
The only alarm bell chimed when my eyes alighted on the dark-haired man sitting down by the jukebox. His eyes met mine, sized me up as I walked past, then moved away in disinterest. He had a broken nose and big hands. A fighter, though not necessarily a good one. He wore a leather jacket. All in all, a good match for the two very similar-looking gentlemen I’d seen loitering across the street outside. Interesting, though nothing to do with me. I filed it away for future reference and took a seat at the bar on the corner, adjacent to the fire exit hallway.
The position gave me the best view of the room. I let my eyes sweep over the faces once again and nodded as the bartender made his approach. I resisted the impulse to order a cold beer, opting instead for a soda water with a twist of lime. Nonalcoholic, but it looks enough like a real drink to avoid unwanted attention.
I sipped the soda water and tried to ignore the Europop blasting from the speakers five feet from my left ear: the single downside of my strategic position. I moved my head from left to right again, refreshing my picture of the room. The guy at the jukebox hadn’t moved. My eyes moved to the northwest corner of the bar, where the blonde was sitting. Only she wasn’t sitting now. She was up and walking diagonally across the floor to where I was perched.
As she got closer, I confirmed that her curly shoulder-length hair was convincingly—and therefore expensively—dyed. She wore blue jeans and a black blouse that showed some midriff and leather boots with three-inch heels. There was a small leather bag hanging from her right shoulder by a strap.
I averted my eyes and looked toward the door, as though expecting someone to join me any minute. The blonde stopped when she got to the bar and put her forearms down on it. She was at the stool next to mine, even though that meant she’d had to walk five paces out of her way to get there. Which meant she’d deliberately wanted to end up beside me. Which meant a change of plan.
She stared straight ahead as she ordered a shot of Stoli, but then turned to me and smiled.
“Hey.”
I smiled in acknowledgment and tried to read her expression. Did she know why I was there? I supposed it wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility that she’d realize someone would be looking for her, that she’d be on the lookout for a certain type. But that’s the thing: I work hard at not being any particular type.
“I like this song,” she said after a minute, then looked me up and down with a coy smile. “What’s your name?”
I decided I had nothing to worry about. She didn’t know who I was. She was just a party girl in a bar, acting interested in the lonesome stranger who just walked in. Emphasis on acting.
“My name’s Blake.”
“Cool.” She nodded, as though a name meant anything at all. “I’m Emma. Are you here with somebody?”
She was overselling it like a life insurance cold caller ten minutes from the end of a bad shift. Nobody who looked like she did would have to try to pick up a guy in a bar. Nobody who looked like that would even have to approach the guy. So what was the play? I set my mind to work on the quandary; the mental exercise wasn’t unwelcome. I decided to see where this was going.
“You tell me.”
She smiled and put a hand on my left arm, just below the shoulder. I felt her squeeze a little through my shirt, as though testing it, and then I understood what she wanted me for.
She dropped her hand as the bartender returned, tossing a napkin on the bar and placing her shot glass on top of it. He glanced at my still half-full glass and I shook my head.
“And what do you do, Blake?”
I considered my answer and decided there was no reason to lie. “I’m sort of a consultant.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of consultant?”
“The usual kind,” I said. “People pay me to solve problems they can’t solve by themselves.”
She laughed as though I’d cracked the joke of the century and slammed the shot in one. “You solve problems. Outstanding.”
“I aim to please.”
&nb
sp; “And what would you say is the most important skill that goes into being a consultant?”
“Why? Do you want to become one?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I guess I would have to say improvisation.”
“Good.” She leaned in close and whispered, the vodka fumes strong on her breath, “Do you want to get out of here?”
I glanced at the door, then back to her. “Right now?”
She nodded, and her tone changed to conspiratorial. “Listen. There are a couple of guys outside waiting for me . . .”
“Guys you’d prefer to avoid?”
“That’s right.”
“Two guys.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Just making sure.”
She laughed uneasily, as though I’d gotten the wrong idea. “I mean, there won’t be any trouble or anything like that, not if you walk me to my car.”
I saw the sudden fear in her eyes, the flash of concern that she’d put me off. That meant there was going to be trouble, all right. Probably a lot more trouble than she realized.
I sat back on my stool and took a drink of the soda, as though carefully considering the proposition. The bartender was dealing with customers at the other end of the bar. That was good.
“Where’s your car?” I asked.
“Right outside. It’s a red coupe.”
That was true. I’d seen the little red Audi A5 coupe parked by the sidewalk twenty yards from the front door.
I leaned in close again, keeping my voice low. That was mostly for her benefit; nobody could hear me over the music even if I’d been yelling at the top of my voice.
“Okay, you’re going to pretend that I’ve insulted you. You’re going to get up and act like you’re headed to the ladies’ room. There’s a fire exit along the corridor behind me. Use it and wait for me.”