by Rachel Brady
The drape swished open and a nurse pushed in a wheeled cart with assorted, sterile-looking tools on top. Vince gave my hand a press and leaned in so only I could hear.
“You haven’t seen the last of me.” He brushed my cheek so softly I thought I might have imagined it, then maneuvered out of the way so the nurse could prep my leg.
Twenty minutes later, I’d been stitched and dosed with painkillers and antibiotics. We were waiting for the nurse to return with my prescription when I heard my name bandied somewhere beyond the curtain. It was Jeannie.
An instant later, she slipped into my exam area and whisked my shoes from the floor.
She shoved one in my lap. “Let’s go.”
“What? Now?” Vince seemed as confused as I was.
“Sorry, cowboy,” she told him, thrusting the other shoe onto my foot. “This wagon train’s movin’ out.”
“Jeannie,” I protested. “What the hell?”
She grabbed my arm and pulled me, half-shoeless, from the table. “Suits!” she hissed. “Come on!”
I leaned to put on my other shoe and Jeannie stuck her head beyond the curtain and looked both ways. Then she grabbed me by the wrist and levered me into the hall.
“Suits?” Vince asked. He followed us from the room.
“Yeah, suits,” she said. “Flashing badges. Get the picture?” She ushered me past him.
I hustled down the hallway with Jeannie on one side and Vince on the other. We struggled to keep up the pace without looking conspicuous. Vince even managed a casual sip from his Coke can.
We turned and followed another hallway until it dead-ended at a bank of elevators. Jeannie scanned the area for a hiding place. I noticed a suited man rounding the corner at the intersection where we’d turned. He paused to check some sort of paper in his hand and then squinted at me. Vince took a step toward the elevators and pushed a button. When the agent looked up, he began walking toward us again, this time faster.
“That’s one of them,” Jeannie said. “Go.”
She pushed me past the elevators, toward a stairwell door, but it was too late. The agent’s footsteps quickened. He was nearly to the elevators when Jeannie and I entered the stairwell. I heard the pronounced oomph of two bodies colliding, then a crisp, metallic smack. When I looked back, Vince and the agent were standing over a fizzing puddle on the linoleum floor, the Coke can at their feet. Their shirts and pants were spattered.
Jeannie and I raced up the stairs.
“Sorry, man…” Vince was saying.
The stairwell door thudded closed behind us and we continued. When we were between the second and third floors, I heard it swing open again.
Chapter Thirty-five
Below, footsteps gained on us.
“Emily Locke?” the agent yelled up the stairs. “FBI.”
At the landing to the third floor, Jeannie looked at me, pointed to her feet, and mouthed “shh.” She flung open the door to the third floor, but continued silently up the stairs to the fourth. I followed.
On the next landing, Jeannie eased open the door silently. We stepped into a corridor thick with disinfectant fumes as a nurse eased a gurney into the elevator. I resisted the weight of the closing door, so its sound wouldn’t echo into the stairwell. Jeannie strode purposefully down the corridor and I tried to mimic the confidence she exuded, but I was rattled, listening for the stairwell door behind us. We took the first turn and passed signs for Pediatric Dialysis and MRI.
Behind us, someone called to hold the elevator.
“It’s him,” I whispered. “He’s asking which way we went.”
We made a right.
A cell phone chimed.
Jeannie stripped my bag from her shoulder and pushed it toward me. “Turn off your damn phone!”
I unzipped the bag and felt around for it, still trying to keep up with Jeannie yet remain low-key.
Ahead, double doors were positioned under a sign that said Laundry. Jeannie made her way to the doors and pressed one open as I flipped open my phone.
“How’s it going at the field office?” Richard wanted to know.
No one was in the Laundromat. Commercial dryers, humming and droning as they spun bland linens, made it hard to hear. I walked to the back of the room, next to a series of wheeled, canvas laundry hampers. It was hot and humid in the room and I was already sweating.
“It’s…fine,” I said. “But, this is a bad time. I’ll call you back soon. Promise.”
Jeannie took a post by the swinging doors and peered through their narrow glass panes.
“Emily—” Richard began.
I closed my phone. “Any sign of him?”
Jeannie shook her head.
My phone rang again. I pressed the buttons to ignore the call and silence the ringer.
“Shit!” Jeannie said, in a loud whisper. “He’s coming!” She whirled toward me, her face stretched in panic.
I scanned the room. “Get in a basket!”
I burrowed through dirty linens piled in an oversized canvas hamper and tried to ignore its smells. Jeannie did the same. When my hole was deep enough that I could hide beneath the basket’s rim, I stepped in and pulled dirty hospital gowns and damp towels over myself. Body odor and the musty scent of old moisture made me want to throw up.
Jeannie whimpered. “Eww! I scooped up something wet and chunky!”
“Get in.” I hoped she’d do it fast.
Soon, only the rhythmic sound of dryers filled the room. I took shallow breaths, worried the rise and fall of my chest might move the mound of linens covering me.
A moment later, the Laundromat door squeaked. It hesitated in the open position. I imagined the agent surveying the washers and dryers, maybe even the laundry hampers. I held my breath. The door squeaked closed.
I exhaled in relief. Unsure how long to wait, I decided to count to sixty. I’d only gotten to two when the door swung open again.
“Oh!” A woman said. “You startled me.”
Holy Hell, I thought, he’s still in the room. I pictured Jeannie balled up in her neighboring chamber of sweat and vomit and wondered how she was doing.
“Brent Keller,” the agent said. “Looking for a missing patient.”
In my mind, I could see the badge flashing.
“Here’s her picture,” Keller said. “Seen her?”
There was a pause.
“Sorry,” she said. “‘Scuse me, please. Watch your toes.”
Castors rolled over the linoleum. The wheels droned louder until a soft-sided hamper ploughed into my hiding spot and sandwiched me between itself and Jeannie’s basket. A dryer buzzed.
The next time I thought the room was clear, I upped the count to two hundred.
That time, I only made it to thirty-nine. Jeannie extricated herself first and cursed up such a storm I worried she’d be overheard. I climbed out too and tried to think of a safe exit strategy. I searched carts and dryers and found a set of scrubs for each of us. We pulled them over our clothes.
Jeannie said Keller, wherever he was, would expect us to go downstairs, so we should go up. We went to a higher floor and found a restroom where we could—in Jeannie’s words—“clean off this putrid funk.” We crossed the building and made our way downstairs. The hospital’s vastness worked for us. Eventually, its cavernous walls spit us out on the wrong side of the block, but a passing intern directed us back to our garage.
When I checked my phone, I’d missed four calls from Richard.
“You drive,” I told Jeannie. “I need to call him.”
“Call him?” she said. “An hour ago, you told me to keep him in the dark.”
“An hour ago, I wasn’t a fugitive from the law.”
We climbed into the car and closed its doors. Jeannie backed out of the parking space. She braked in the aisle and looked at me. “What happened to ‘it’ll ruin his career’?”
My head fell back onto the headrest. I didn’t know what to do. Jeannie let the car coast down the ramp t
oward the garage’s exit.
“If it weren’t for you and Vince, I’d be in custody,” I said.
She smiled. “Good thing for you, we kick ass.”
I shook my head. “That was luck. I can’t skirt the FBI forever. I’ll be surprised to make it another hour.”
She paid the attendant and the gate arm rose. Sunlight flooding in from the street was blinding.
“Which way do I turn?” she asked.
“I don’t care,” I said. “I need to find a locker.”
She took a right out of the garage and drove where traffic pushed her.
“Are you suggesting Richard can help you evade the FBI until you get Annette?”
“I don’t think he’d do that. But he’d probably help explain why I ran.”
“You can do that yourself.”
“What if they trace my call and come for me before I get her? If Richard explained to Clement, maybe the FBI would help me.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
No, I was an amateur—and way over my head. In my panic, I’d evaded any potential backup. Now I could only hope the outcome would be the best for Annette and Casey.
We passed the Museum of Natural Science and the Museum of Fine Arts. Jeannie rounded a corner and we stopped an intersection with the Health Museum on one side and the Children’s Museum on another.
At the crosswalk, mothers and youngsters held hands and checked both ways before crossing to the brightly colored building. Some pushed strollers, others pulled wagons. One mom with a baby on her hip bent to recover a dropped bottle.
“Park the car,” I said.
“What?”
“Find a meter and park. Look at all those kids. All their gear.” I felt a pang, remembering what it was like to haul a stroller and diaper bag everywhere I went. “They’ve got to have lockers in there.”
For a quarter, I rented a small, wall-mounted metal cube. When we were alone, Jeannie stood watch as I pulled $125,000 of thick, cash bricks from my backpack and stacked them inside. The door snapped shut and I removed a key with a cheap plastic handle from the slot and shoved it into the pocket of my Capris.
Outside, we waited to cross the street and Jeannie turned to me and wrinkled her nose.
“We’re sending Trish to a children’s museum?”
Chapter Thirty-six
“I lied before,” I told Richard, once we connected via phone. “I never went to the FBI field office for an interview.”
“I know.”
“It’s because Trish knows where Annette is. She’ll trade her for the money. Casey too.”
Jeannie and I were laying low in a park near the Houston Zoo. Richard was my second call. First, we’d called Vince to thank him for his help at the hospital and bring him up to speed. He wanted to help and I’d promised to keep him posted.
“Your emotions are clouding your judgment.” My low-battery warning interrupted him but Richard’s tone came through; his words snapped with the harsh bite of concern. “What you’re planning is suicide. She’ll never let you walk out of there with those kids.”
“I think she’s greedy enough to do it.”
“Think. She gives you the kids. You give her the money. What’s to say she’ll let you leave? She’ll kill you, take her money, take the kids—probably sell them again—and be back in business before dinner.”
I explained where I’d hidden half of her money. Richard wasn’t persuaded.
“When’s this happening?” he asked.
“She’ll call me. The only way she’d do it was for me to let her set it up.”
“Jesus.” He exhaled. “You know I have to tell the FBI.”
From my seat at a picnic table, I spotted Jeannie at the playground, surrounded by a gaggle of little girls.
Richard continued. “By the way, I know what you did at the hospital.”
“Look, I want to call Clement, but I’m afraid that if I do, the FBI will track me down before I get Annette.”
“You need their help.”
I nodded. “I know. But I’m afraid to ask for it. They might accidentally tip off Trish. Or maybe arrest me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Clement wants Trish,” Richard said. “And you’re talking to her. That should help. Where are you?”
“Hermann Park. We’re waiting for her instructions.”
“We? You didn’t trust me or the FBI, but Jeannie’s competent?”
I looked up in time to see her “shake it all about” with a group of Hoky-Pokying preschoolers.
I shrugged. “She busted me out of the hospital.”
“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll call Clement, see what he says.”
Shortly after we hung up, Kurt’s phone rang. Trish was ready.
The plan she laid out wasn’t what I expected: “Go to Neiman Marcus in the Galleria and tell them you lost a beaded red bag. Get there by 5:30. Bring the money.”
It was 4:35 and I didn’t know how long it took to get to the Galleria, or where the Neiman Marcus was. Trish didn’t stay on the line long enough to ask her.
“Come on!” I waved Jeannie toward the car. She trotted after me, kids waving goodbye as she hurried away. We asked a speed walker for directions. She seemed to answer in slow motion.
We got to the Galleria in a half hour. I recognized some street names—Richmond, West Alabama, Westpark. It was the neighborhood I’d jogged my first morning in Houston.
Traffic near the high-dollar mega mall was a problem. Cars were gridlocked around the block, turn signals blinking. I feared the wait would eat up the time I had left.
“Go ahead,” Jeannie said at the corner of Westheimer and Post Oak. “I’ll park. Give me your phone. When you have the mysterious handbag, call me. We’ll hook up that way.”
I pulled Kurt’s cell phone out of the bag, lighter with half its cash missing, and handed it to Jeannie.
“No,” she said, “You need that one incase Trish calls again. Give me yours.”
“I need mine incase Richard calls.”
Impatient, she snatched the backpack from me and took out my phone. We saved the critical numbers—mine, Richard’s, Trish’s, Vince’s, and the new pre-paid—into all the models. Jeannie kept my cell and I took the new temporary phone along with Kurt’s. Then I let myself out of the car, waited for a Number 33 Metro bus to pass, and crossed the street toward the mall.
At Neiman Marcus, I passed a security guard at the door and was promptly met by a dignified older woman in a non-descript black suit. A shiny gold nametag I couldn’t read was pinned to her lapel.
“Is there a lost and found? I left my purse.”
She directed me to an elevator bank between Cosmetics and Shoes and suggested I try Customer Service, downstairs. On my way, I glimpsed a sale price of $1300 on a handbag discreetly chained to its display shelf.
When the associate downstairs handed over my “lost” bag, I was struck by its lightness. I stepped behind a Baccarat crystal display and unsnapped the little purse. A note and key were inside.
Leave the mall through the far end of the food court. Exit to the Yellow Garage. I’ll know if you’re alone. A white Lexus is parked in area LL1, Zone H, two rows from the door. License plate V72 BNT. Use the key to take it north to Huntsville on I-45. Call when you pass Exit 60.
I found a ladies room tucked in the back of the China department, but the elegant, full-length doors inside made it difficult to know for sure that I was alone. I listened for a few moments, and convinced I had no company, closed myself in a stall and called Jeannie to read her the note. She said she’d tell the plan to Richard and Vince.
She’d try to get to the Yellow Garage and watch for the white Lexus, but she was gridlocked in so much traffic she figured I’d get there first.
“If I wait,” I said, “it’ll look suspicious.”
“No, don’t do that. Head up the highway like she said and tell me where you exit. We can help you if we know where you are.”
I exited Neim
an Marcus and found myself on the second of three floors, all open to an elaborate arched skylight that ran the length of the enormous corridor. On my way to the food court, I passed dozens of elite shops: Chanel, Tiffany & Co., Fendi, Cartier, Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani, Versace, Coach. At each storefront, I wondered whether someone were watching from inside. Below, a full-size ice skating rink was built right in the middle of the mall with the food court surrounding it on both sides. The blended scent of frying onions and grilled meat dominated the food court, where space was so limited several people ate standing, watching figure skaters spin and jump below.
I took the escalator to the lower level and followed signs to the Yellow Garage. A video arcade on my left pumped out peppy, electronic tunes that faded when I eased open a glass door and stepped outside, into the garage. Cigarette smoke lingered in the space around me, but the only people I saw were motorists jockeying for a place to park. For a moment, I worried that a henchman or sniper, or perhaps Trish herself, might have me in a gun sight. Then I relaxed a little, figuring they wouldn’t kill someone who still had half their money. I surveyed the parking area, but found only innocuous rows of cars, a Sparkletts delivery truck, and drivers too preoccupied to notice me.
I wasn’t surprised Jeannie hadn’t made it. Through a nearby street exit, I could see traffic outside was still bumper-to-bumper.
I paced two rows of cars and found the Lexus with the right plate. Before getting inside, I checked the back seat. Only immaculate leather and pristine floor mats waited behind the tinted glass.
Twenty-five minutes later, I accelerated up the I-610 ramp on my way to I-45. According to Jeannie, Huntsville was seventy miles north of Houston. The drop zone was seventy miles south. I thought about the extensive cross-city travel and wondered what Trish was planning.
Exit Sixty caught me by surprise because it was nowhere close to Huntsville. In fact, I wasn’t even out of Houston when I passed its sign.
I called Trish.
“The next exit is Beltway 8,” she said. “Take it east. Follow the signs for Bush Intercontinental.” Houston’s largest airport, the one I’d flown into with Richard.