I considered my options. I could thaw the doors with hot water and risk breaking the car's glass, return upstairs to sulk and starve, or walk seven blocks to the all-night convenience store on Center.
The walk wasn't as bad as I expected. It was a windless night, and the snow had covered the city with a Christmas-card blanket of white. The night was still, and it felt almost warm compared to earlier in the day when the wind had been cutting.
The jacket was warm enough, but I longed for better shoes. My loafers did little to keep my feet warm, and their smooth soles were useless on the snow-covered sidewalks. Still, the weather wasn't all bad. I took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air, better than a peppermint patty.
Aside from harmless encounters with roving bands of intoxicated pub-crawlers, I made it to the convenience store without incident. I bought a hot dog, a small bag of chips, and a hot chocolate. I sat in the store's lone booth and scarfed down my purchases.
When I was done, I might have felt better if it weren't for Lucy's death and Edgar's disappearing act. Maybe I couldn't bring Lucy back, but I could find Edgar.
I recalled what my brothers said, that Edgar lived two blocks off Center. I fished around in my ski-jacket, where I'd put Edgar’s address, intending to sneak back with his mail.
I never made it, not that it mattered. Like Anthony said, it was all junk. I'd finally pitched it into Gary's dumpster at the comic store.
Studying the note, I remembered what my brothers said about trash on Edgar’s porch. If the porch were clean, Edgar was probably home. If trash remained, he was probably still gone.
I purchased a jumbo hot chocolate for the walk and slipped my way down the sidewalks along Center. This time, I encountered only one lone pub-crawler, a gaunt, gray-haired man. I stepped aside as he weaved by, his fur-lined hood thrown back, belting out a pretty fair rendition of Gordon Lightfoot's Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. His gloved fingers encircled a small trophy sporting a gold karaoke machine.
The old song, inspired by the most famous shipwreck in the history of the Great Lakes, offered a blow-by-blow account of how 29 sailors died in 1975 when their giant ore carrier capsized in thirty-foot waves on Lake Superior.
It was a good song, but it depressed me just the same. In five years living down South, I'd never heard it once.
I found Edgar's house, a small two-story tucked between two massive Victorian beauties. Edgar's small, welcoming porch might have been charming if it weren't covered with potato chip bags and snack boxes. The old-fashioned mail box, perched atop the porch steps, was stuffed to the gills with mail. So he still wasn’t home? My heart sank.
I was turning to leave when I saw a light flick on upstairs.
On impulse, I scooted behind a thick patch of pines nestled along his property line. I peeked up at the house. A shadowy figure passed the second-story window. It couldn't be Edgar. Could it? I slipped deeper into the shadows and waited, mentally patting myself on the back for having the hot chocolate. I was getting a lot better at this winter thing.
My smugness was short-lived. Within minutes, I'd gulped down all the warmth and was shivering again. But I didn't want to leave. If I'd brought my cell phone, I might have called the police. And reported what? I imagined my 911 call. "Hey, I'm hiding in Edgar's bushes peeping into his upstairs windows . . . "
No, I decided, it was a good thing I’d left my cell phone home. I hopped up and down, trying to warm myself. My hands were freezing. I still hadn't purchased gloves. I was the worst Yankee ever.
My neck was stiff from looking up, and I'd lost the feeling in my feet. I was about to scuttle back home when that same light flicked off. I tensed.
A minute later, a door creaked. A shadowy figure in a massive parka emerged from Edgar's back yard. Who it was, I couldn't tell, thanks to an oversized hood that obscured the person's face deep in shadows.
I held my breath as they slunk by. Judging from their size and walk, I decided it was a man. But who? I heard someone call out. That someone was me. "Hey!" I hollered. The figure looked my way, paused, and then took off at a dead run.
I dropped the empty hot chocolate cup and plunged after him.
Chapter 46
The man wore big heavy boots that would guarantee a last-place finish at any track meet. But my loafers, if anything, were worse. Their smooth soles were a huge handicap on the slippery, snow-covered ground.
The man huffed and puffed as I chased fruitlessly after him, not out of breath, but out of patience with my inadequate clothing. I mentally added boots to my shopping list.
The man jumped an icy patch of sidewalk, littered with crumpled soda cups. I was so near that his labored breathing sounded in stereo. I reached out, grasping for his parka.
I missed.
A split-second later, my ass hit the pavement, followed by the back of my head, thudding hard enough to make me see stars. Groaning, I blinked long and hard before lifting my head to look around. Half a block away, I spotted a shadow coming fast toward me.
I groaned again, but this time, it was for a different reason.
Damn it. I recognized that shadow.
A moment later, he was at my side, crouched beside me on the cold sidewalk. I felt a hand on my face, warm against my cold skin.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "Go away."
"Not a chance," Bishop said.
With a sigh, I opened my eyes, meeting his dark gaze as he stared down at me, his eyes sharp and his jaw tight. "What the hell were you thinking?" he said.
I pushed away from the pavement. "What do you mean?"
He reached under my arms, helping me to my feet. His embrace was gentle, but his voice wasn't. "Who was that guy?"
"Who?"
He made a low, scoffing sound. "You haven't changed."
"Yeah? Well, neither have you." I pushed back until I was free of his embrace. Grimacing, I reached up to rub the back of my head. It hurt like hell.
His voice softened. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, but–" I suddenly recalled why I'd slipped in the first place. I glanced around. "Where'd he go?" I said.
Bishop's voice was flat. "Who?"
My gaze narrowed. "You're making fun of me. Aren't you?"
"You gotta ask?"
"What are you doing here anyway?"
"Pub crawl," he said.
I made a show of looking around. Surrounding us, I saw lots of houses, no pubs. "Right," I said. "And of course, you just happened to be a couple blocks behind me."
"Small town," he said.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Tell me about it."
"C'mon," he said. "I'm walking you home."
I glanced vaguely back toward Edgar's house. No point in returning there. Whoever the guy was, he was long gone by now. I looked down at my feet. "Stupid loafers."
That's when I noticed it, an unfamiliar cell phone lying just within reach. I crouched down to pick it up, giving it a cursory inspection.
"Your phone?" Bishop said.
I studied the thing. "Maybe."
Before he could reach for it, I shoved it into my coat pocket and started trudging toward my apartment. Soon, I felt his hand on my elbow.
"Sure you're okay?" he said.
My head was killing me, and my ass wasn't much better. "I don't know," I said. "I think someone's been following me."
His grip tightened. "Who?"
"You."
He let go. "Smart-ass."
We were silent for a couple minutes, and then he said, "Wanna tell me about the guy in the parka?"
"Not particularly."
"I figured."
"But hey," I said, "if you saw the guy, why didn't you go after him?"
He stopped walking and turned to face me. "Is that a serious question?"
"Totally."
"Alright," he said, his voice harder now. "It's because I don't give a rat's ass about some guy in a parka. But I do give a rat's ass about you."
I narrowed my gaze. "Did you get that off a greeting
card?"
When he didn't respond, I said, "Oh c'mon, be honest. You were obviously following me. Why?"
"Investment protection."
"What investment?" I asked.
"You're my fiancée for that party, remember?"
"So?"
"So," he said, "I wanna make sure you're there."
This had nothing to do with the party, and we both knew it. This was vintage Bishop. Silently, I turned and started walking again.
"So," I said, "you can't get another fake fiancée?"
"Sure I could get one," he said. "But she's got to be a psycho, remember?"
"Psycho?" I repeated.
He shrugged.
"Don’t you know?" I said. "You had me at rat's ass."
A half-hour later, he deposited me safely to the steps leading to my apartment. I said a quick goodbye and turned to head up the stairs.
"Hang on," Bishop said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, along with a small black pen. As I watched, he jotted down a phone number. "My cell," he said, handing me the scrap. "If you need help, you call me."
I took the number. "I will."
"No, you won't."
"I know. But it seemed the polite thing to say." I glanced toward my apartment. "Thanks for walking me back though."
"Don't mention it."
"And Bishop?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't follow me anymore."
Chapter 47
Standing in the freezing alley, his jaw tightened. "Wanna know why I followed you?"
I crossed my arms. "Yes, actually."
"Because," he said, "I just happened to be driving down Madison, and who do I see? You." He took a step closer. "In some party store in the middle of the night."
"Okaaaay," I said in a tone of forced patience. "One – midnight is hardly the middle of the night. And two – I don't see what the problem is."
"I wouldn’t either," he said, "except I look, and I don't see the Mustang in the parking lot."
"So I walked," I said. "Big deal. It's only a few blocks."
"So then," he continued, "because I know how you are, I park across the street, and I watch."
"Well, that's not creepy or anything."
"And what do you do?" he said. "You take off in the opposite direction of where you're staying."
My chin lifted. "So you decided to follow me?"
"Yeah. And I'd do it again." He gripped my elbow. "Do you know a girl not much different from you got murdered tonight?"
I looked away. I did know. Just thinking of it, my stomach sank. I softened my tone. "Yeah, but that was some burglary. It's not like she was mugged on the street or anything."
"You think that matters?" he said.
"Look," I said, "I know it's terrible, but what do you expect me to do? Sit inside with the doors locked?"
"Would you?"
"No. Because the way it sounds, that's exactly what she was doing, and look what happened to her." I lowered my voice. "C'mon. You know bad things happen every day. Our lives can't grind to a halt because of it."
He stared at me a long moment, and finally said, "Alright. You win." He released my elbow like it was toxic. "If you wanna be mad at me, go ahead. But I'm not gonna lie to you. I would do it again in a heartbeat."
I blew out a long breath, feeling my body deflate long before I finished. Was I sorry? Not really. Like Bishop, I'd do the same thing in a heartbeat too. Still, somewhere along the line, my self-righteous irritation had faded to insignificance.
I met his gaze. "What do you want me to say?"
He glanced up toward my apartment door. "I want you to say that when you go inside, you're gonna stay there."
"Want to know what you can say?" I asked.
His voice was clipped. "What?"
"That when I go inside, you'll find somewhere else to go."
"Fair enough."
"Promise me," I said.
His gaze bored into mine. "You promise me."
"Alright. I promise."
He gave me a short nod. "Me too."
I waited.
He didn't move.
"How come you're not leaving?" I said.
"How come you're not inside?"
Shaking my head, I turned and trudged up the open stairway. When I reached the narrow wooden landing, I stopped and fumbled for my keys. Wordlessly, I unlocked my apartment and pushed open the door just a crack. Before stepping inside, I turned back to give Bishop a little wave.
He crossed his arms and waited.
With a sigh, I turned, crossed the threshold and shut the door behind me. I stood, just inside the door, for maybe a minute, wrestling with my self-control. I so wanted to open the door and see if he was still there.
But what if he was? I'd look like an idiot. So instead, I crossed my small living area and collapsed onto the sofa. When my head hit the sofa back, I felt myself cringe.
I reached up to feel the back of my head. There was a definite lump. No surprise. It still hurt like hell. But there was no spurting blood, and I was still walking around, so I figured I was fine.
When I was growing up, my parents had instilled their own personal beliefs about the emergency room. My dad said it was for pussies. My mom called it a waste of money. As for me, I figured it was a waste of time, the one thing I had too little of already.
Still, I knew I shouldn't sleep. Pushing up from the couch, I reached into my coat pocket and dug out the mystery cell phone, a basic no-frills model.
Who'd it belong to? The guy in the parka? It had to be his. Fiddling with the phone as I walked, I ambled to my desk. I turned on the lamp and shoved aside a stack of scribbled notes. I toyed with the phone's features and found its list of recent calls.
Most of the calls were identified by name. I scrolled through, recognizing a couple of local pharmacies and a few restaurants that delivered. When I reached an entry that seemed out of place, I stopped.
It was listed by number only, and the area code was unfamiliar. Absently, I reached for a pen and jotted down all ten digits.
When I started scrolling again, the entries grew fuzzy. I reached up to rub the back of my head. I swear, the lump felt bigger, but I knew it couldn't be. I shuffled the papers into one big pile and stood, still shaky but determined to stay awake.
I walked to the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. I gulped down a couple of pain-killers and eyed the bathtub. When Crystal saw the water bill, she'd have a holy kinipshin. But the bill wouldn't arrive tonight, so I filled the tub with steaming hot water, removed my clothes, and sank into the tub for the second time that night.
With a start, I awoke shivering in the lukewarm water. I looked around, recalling the night's events and hating myself for drifting off. My head still throbbed, and I was shaking so hard the water was churning. I eased out of the tub and wrapped myself in a thin towel.
I rummaged around for more pain killers. I found the bottle and shook a couple onto my hand. Something looked off, and then it hit me. They were blue, the nighttime variety.
So much for not sleeping. I mentally slapped myself on the forehead. It didn't help my headache. I threw down the pill bottle in disgust and made my way out of the bathroom.
I eyed the clock. It was three in the morning. I'd slept how long? An hour? Two? I threw on a pair of fleece pajama bottoms, along with a thick sweatshirt, and then dragged the comforter off my bed. I wrapped it around myself and sat at my desk, determined to finish the cell phone inspection.
But the phone wasn't on the desk. Confused, I returned to the bathroom and sifted through my discarded clothes. The phone wasn't there either. The cold forgotten, I threw off the comforter and tore through the apartment, searching every nook and cranny. With my apartment so bare, it didn't take long to figure it out.
The phone was gone.
Chapter 48
I opened the door to the alley. Cold air blasted into the apartment. For once, I didn't care. Had I locked the door when I r
eturned? I couldn't remember.
I closed the door, locked it and felt the beginnings of a slow burn.
I knew damn well who took that phone. Bishop. It had to be. I stalked to the bathroom and dug through the pockets of my discarded clothes. I found the scrap of paper he'd given me. Retrieving my own cell phone, I pounded out his number.
It had barely rung when I heard his voice, low and urgent. "Selena? What is it?"
I didn't bother to hide my annoyance. "You know damn well what it is."
He was quiet a beat, and then said. "No. I don't."
I hesitated, suddenly unsure of my earlier conclusion. "Where are you?" I asked.
"I'm not standing outside your apartment, if that's what you're thinking."
"Oh."
His voice grew harder. "Is that why you called? To make sure I'm not spying on you?"
Just then, something else occurred to me. "Hey, how'd you know it was me?" I asked.
"Caller ID."
I gave it some thought. With my cell phone, the caller's name only showed up if I'd already added them as a contact. Either Bishop had a better phone plan, or there was something he wasn't telling me.
"You already had my number," I said. "Didn't you?"
"You're changing the subject," he said.
"And you," I said, "are avoiding the question."
"I'm not the only one," he said.
"I've got to go," I said. "Sorry for calling so late."
"I don't care what time it is," he said. "If something happens, you call me. I mean it."
"Nothing's gonna happen," I told him.
"Or," he said, "it already has, and you don't want to tell me."
Sometimes, he was too smart for his own good.
"I've gotta go," I said. "Sorry again."
Before he could respond, I disconnected the call and sank onto my sofa. I glanced around my apartment. More than ever, I needed information. But without the phone, I had nothing.
Or did I? I jumped up and scurried to my desk. Digging under the pile of papers, I found the phone number I'd jotted down earlier. More curious than ever, I powered up my laptop and did a quick search.
Illegal Fortunes Page 18