“That’ll never happen,” Stuart said. “Only thing I can do now is run.”
I read further in the article. The former agent lived in someplace called Berwyn, near Chicago.
“Can you find his number?” I asked Stephen.
It took him less than two minutes. I don’t know how he did it, and don’t want to.
I picked up my phone and started to punch in the numbers, but Hunter’s desk phone rang first. He jumped a little.
After listening for a few moments, he covered the receiver with his hand. “It’s one of our friends in Security. There’s a guy who wants to come up here. Claims he’s a friend of yours, Stuart.”
He put the phone on speaker. Stuart got up and stood by the desk.
“What does he look like?”
The guard paused. “Just a second.”
There was a rustling sound. “Okay, I’m back. Don’t want the guy to overhear. He’s about thirty. A little greasy-looking, messed-up brown hair, bug-eyed. I didn’t see it at first, but he’s missing an ear. Probably makes it hard to keep his sunglasses on.”
Stuart shuddered.
“You know that guy on The Office?” the guard continued. “The one who kept saying he was the Assistant Office Manager and glaring at everybody?”
“Dwight Schrute,” Stephen volunteered. “Played by Rainn Wilson.”
“Yeah. Looks kind of like him.”
Panicking, Stuart shot a glance at the door.
“It’s Jeremy,” he said. “Too late.”
Chapter 3
If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought Hunter was one of those politically toxic concrete lawn jockeys, only taller and grayer and less lively. He sat there with the phone in his hand, mouth open slightly. It took him a good half minute to find his voice.
“Tell the guy I’m not in,” he whispered, and returned the receiver to its cradle.
I rummaged through my mental map case for the blueprint of the Pendleton Building. “We’ve got a fire escape, right?”
Hunter nodded numbly.
“I think it’s in the back,” I said. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get to street level. We’re only on the second floor.”
Stuart looked out the window and made a sound like a spaniel lamenting a lost bone. “Are you sure? Seems a lot higher than that.”
“I think I should stay here,” Hunter said faintly.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.
Stephen rose. “Follow me,”
“Who died and made you Tom Cruise?” I asked.
He folded his arms. “I was a Boy Scout for a year. Of course, this was before they got sued over—”
“Never mind. I’m sure you earned your merit badges for Baking Potatoes in Tin Foil and Fire Escape Climbing. Go ahead.”
After taking Stuart squarely by the shoulders and lining him up behind Stephen, I turned to Hunter. “We’ll be in touch.” He nodded like a jet-lagged Japanese tourist trying to make sense of a Brooklynite’s directions to Yankee Stadium.
The three of us went down the hall, not exactly tiptoeing, which is physically impossible. I for one felt extremely stealthy, however.
Stephen stopped at the fourth window on the right. FIRE ESCAPE, said the red-on-white sign next to the casing. Grabbing the grips at the base of the sash, he yanked upward with a mighty grunt. Nothing happened, except for a possible hernia.
“Stuart, give me a hand,” he said. Stuart took one handle and Stephen took the other. “On three. One . . . two . . .”
In unison, they jerked upward with barely-stifled primal screams. The sash didn’t budge.
Panting, Stephen reached in his pocket. “I still carry my Scout penknife. Sometimes these windows get painted shut. I doubt anybody’s opened this one in years.”
He ran the blade from one side of the sill to the other, then snapped the knife shut and stuck it back in his pocket.
They tried once more, and this time the earth moved. Just an inch, and with a dry squeak of protest. I got between them and the three of us gave it one more try. This time the job got done.
I wasn’t sure Stuart could get out, but we didn’t have much choice. Stephen went first, ducking as low as he could and squeezing like a spelunker in a particularly nasty cave. He ended up on the rusty metal platform, which swayed slightly but held his weight.
“Can’t do it,” Stuart said.
“Of course you can,” I said. “I’ve seen you do the impossible. Remember the day your mom died? You were a mess, but you got it together and did the big reading at the Tattered Cover Bookstore. You didn’t want to let those kids down.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I’ve seen you at your best.”
“Well, this is my worst.”
With a sigh he positioned his bulk in front of the portal and began to maneuver through the opening. I considered pushing his rear end, but didn’t want to seem overly familiar.
Finally he emerged from the tunnel and plopped onto the platform like a sausage from an assembly line. I followed, landing a little too close to a long, rusted bolt that stuck out from the frame. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a tetanus shot.
Stuart, dazed, sat there. He was wheezing so much I thought he might have a heart attack.
Stephen held onto the side of the escape and frowned. “Not quite as easy as I thought. More of a ladder than a staircase. But it’s only about twenty feet.”
“You okay?” I asked Stuart.
He shook his head.
“Good. You get too cocky about something like this and you start to make mistakes. At least that’s what they say in the movies.” Doubtful, but it sounded rather inspirational.
Stephen took hold of the iron-pipe railings and started descending backward, one slow step at a time. The whole contraption still swayed a little, but it was obviously going to hold. Or not.
I patted Stuart on the shoulder and helped him to his feet. Eyes wild with trepidation, he placed his shoes carefully in Stephen’s footsteps and began the journey with a slow tap tap tap down the stairs.
At the second switchback, he misjudged a step and found his foot dangling in midair. With a gasp, he lost his footing. His sweaty hands slid off the pipe.
I reached forward, trying to catch him, but it was too late. A strangled scream came from his throat as he plummeted to the ground. Stephen swore.
Stuart landed in a dumpster packed with trash bags. I hoped they weren’t full of broken beer bottles and railroad spikes.
Still off balance from my failed rescue attempt, I missed the last rung. Flailing for a handhold that wasn’t there, I looked down and saw Stuart on his back amid the garbage. His eyes grew wide as he saw me coming.
I couldn’t stop myself, of course. There wasn’t even time to pray.
With an OOOF I landed on something relatively soft. At least half of it was Stuart.
I made a mental note to thank him for breaking my fall, if he was still alive.
I tried not to breathe, the stench of rancid orange juice and wet diapers having permeated the air. I could hear Stuart groaning somewhere below me.
“Thank you,” I said, wincing from the pain in my leg. “Sorry I couldn’t defy the law of gravity.”
The smell got worse as he tried to sit up, popping several bags open in the process. “Neither could I,” he mumbled. He held his hands in front of him. “No blood.”
“You sound disappointed,” I said, fishing my purse from the refuse and making a mental note to soak it in bleach as soon as possible.
“Not disappointed. Just amazed.”
Stephen’s face appeared above the edge of the dumpster. “Anybody dead?”
“Not here,” I said. Stuart made an effort to adjust his reeking clothes as we slowly climbed out.
“Keep your heads down,” Stephen said.
Stuart was limping a little as we made our way back to the car, staying close to the alley walls and under the awnings. By the time we opened the car d
oors three blocks away, we stank like the New Fulton Fish Market when the fans break down in August.
I turned the key in the ignition, hoping Jeremy didn’t know how to wire a car bomb. We all rolled the windows down.
“I’d ask where we’re going,” Stuart said, “but I guess we’ve covered that.”
“Watch for that Cadillac,” I said, pulling away from the curb. “And let me know if we pass a place that sells deodorant.”
The coast was clear for about two miles when we happened upon a Walgreens. Running inside, I found some Secret for me and Irish Spring for the guys. The clerk wrinkled her nose, coughed, and kept her distance as I handed over the cash and gave her my Balance Rewards card.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “‘P.U., Sigma Nu.”
Judging from the look on her face, she wasn’t familiar with the phrase. She dropped the items into a bag, handed it over, and told me with obvious insincerity to have a nice day.
We stuck our respective antiperspirants into our armpits, which didn’t help much. God only knew how long it would be until we found a laundromat and the time to use it.
On the road again, we spotted an old white Cadillac down the road at a gas station.
“I think we’re being followed,” Stephen said.
I swallowed. “You mean preceded.”
I turned toward the pumps as we passed. Couldn’t see the driver, but had to assume the worst.
Traffic was light enough that I could speed up to 20 miles per hour or so. Before I knew it, the Caddy was on our tail.
I gunned it to 23. So did he.
Peering into the rearview mirror, I couldn’t make out the driver’s face.
I cranked it up to 25.
He matched it.
“Most boring car chase in history,” Stephen muttered. “Remember The French Connection? Gene Hackman races through Chicago at about 90 miles an hour. Directed by William Friedkin. They didn’t even have permission to shoot there. It was a wonder nobody got killed.”
The Queensboro Bridge exit was on the right. I jerked the wheel; the Caddy didn’t follow.
Stuart groaned as we met a wall of traffic.
“Carolyn, we’re freakin’ stuck,” Stephen said. “How are we supposed to get anywhere?”
“Safest place to be.” Slowing to a crawl, I checked the dashboard to make sure we weren’t overheating. I was, but our vehicle wasn’t.
Stuart unbuttoned his collar and pulled his shirt up as high as he could, a turtle retreating into his shell. “Something like this happened to Jennifer Jenner, except she wasn’t being chased by a guy who used a cheese grater to get answers.”
Stephen made a disgusted noise. “The A/C on this car sucks.”
I resisted the urge to push my seat back into his trachea. “Weren’t you trying to reach that Gallagher guy? The former agent?”
He sighed and pulled out his phone. Two tries later he connected.
“Agent Gallagher?” Stephen asked.
I couldn’t hear the reply.
“Yes, former agent. Sir, this is Stephen Ames with Pendleton Publishing. One of our authors has gotten himself in trouble with the Boudreaux family. I understand they’ve been your hobby for a long time.”
Another pause.
“Well, maybe hobby isn’t the right word. Anyway, three of us are in a car, trying to get out of Manhattan. We think we’re being followed by a greasy-haired guy named Jeremy who works for the family. Can you help us out?”
I couldn’t make out Gallagher’s reply, but it sounded like a bear being poked with a stick.
“Where did I get this number? Well—”
More growling.
“Yeah, I know you’re a thousand miles away. But we were hoping—”
I reached out my hand. “Stephen, give me the phone.”
“Former Agent Gallagher? I’m Carolyn Neville, Stephen’s supervisor. I’ll go straight to the point. Would you like the chance to bring down the Boudreauxs?”
“Lady, for all I know you work for them.” His voice was gruff and not in an endearing Wilford Brimley way.
“From what I’ve heard, the family is way too smart to use a ridiculous story like ours to scam you. They’re not desperate, but we are.”
“Who’d you say you work for?”
“Pendleton House Publishers.”
“Give me a minute. I’ll call you back.”
The line went dead.
“What did he say?” Stuart asked.
“I think he’s checking us out.”
Five minutes later, we’d moved a good 300 feet down the highway. I looked for an exit to anywhere, but we were firmly implanted.
My ringtone sounded.
“All right,” Gallagher said. “I’m in Chicago. You’re in New York. Let’s meet halfway.”
“Where would that be?”
“Ever been to Columbus, Ohio?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Me neither. Let’s hope the family doesn’t think of looking for us there.”
“It’s going to take us a while.”
“I don’t doubt it. Check in with me on the way. And keep your head down.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t speak too soon. At least one of us is going to regret this.”
A click, then silence.
“So, what’d he say?” Stephen asked.
“He’s in. At least for the moment.” I paused. “Ever been to Columbus, Ohio?”
“No.”
“If we’re lucky, we’ll be there in two days. If not, we’ll be history.”
Chapter 4
“I need my stuff,” Stephen whined as we finally left Manhattan. “What am I supposed to wear? And my guitar—”
“You don’t need one,” I said.
“We can’t go home and pack our bags,” Stuart said, looking like he wished we could. “Jeremy, or whoever’s following us, will look there first.”
“We need less fragrant wardrobes anyway,” I said. Seeing a red-and-white Target sign in the distance, I took the exit to East River Plaza.
Stephen and Stuart headed for the men’s clothing department. I lingered long enough to hear them arguing about whether Walmart would have been a classier choice.
I’d been wanting something breezier for summer, which really meant something looser so I could meet my donut quota. I envisioned something pink—the more inappropriate for the office the better.
One set of underwear might be enough, but of course you can’t buy bras and panties at Target that way. My choices were basic, sturdy, gray, the kind of thing one might expect editors to wear.
The jeans and blouses were pretty picked over, mostly not my size, and the only pink things were the markdown tags. Not wanting to take time to try anything on, I did the best I could and eyeballed each candidate. I ended up with a light green blouse, a pair of jeans, and a denim jacket with a reddish-brown spot I managed to pick off with my fingernails.
“We’re done,” said a voice behind me. It was Stephen, holding up an Ed Sheeran T-shirt, black jeans, and two three-packs of white socks and briefs. Stuart had rolled his choices into a big wad, apparently for reasons of secrecy or embarrassment.
Stephen, Mr. Impulse Buy, grabbed a bag of Werther’s caramels at the checkout. Stuart got a little plastic vial of Tylenol.
Thanking God for credit cards, I led the way back to the car. We stopped at a Shell station and changed in the bathroom. Not wanting to set off the fire alarm, I resisted the urge to incinerate my old garments in the 50-gallon drum that served as a trash can.
We met in the convenience store and purchased drinks. I got a Coke the size of a roll of paper towels, just for the caffeine.
“I’ll drive,” Stephen said as I filled the tank with regular unleaded.
I shook my head. “Not that I don’t trust you with my car. But I don’t.”
I drove and drove, trying not to listen to the basketball game Stephen was streaming on his phone. Stuart, dressed in wha
t turned out to be a cleaner version of practically everything he was already wearing, slept fitfully. Every so often he’d awake with a start, look out the window, and pop a Tylenol.
“You’ll damage your liver if you keep that up,” I warned.
“I was hoping for something more serious,” he muttered, and curled up in the fetal position—or at least as much as one could manage with a seat belt on.
The sun was setting as we hit Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I was out of Coke, jittery as a chihuahua, glancing at red barns with hexes like stained glass and wondering where we were going to stay. Stephen pulled out his phone and, as usual, was compelled to enlighten us.
“That’s for good luck,” he said, pointing at one. “The next one’s for fertility.”
“I need the first one tattooed on my arm,” I said.
“Insert your own joke about the other,” he said, trying to look innocent.
“I’d rather not.” I took the last swig of Coke and stowed the bottle under the passenger seat.
“Did you see Witness? The movie with Harrison Ford?”
I nodded. “Didn’t everybody?”
“He stayed in a barn like these.”
“Don’t think so. That took place in Amish country. This is Pennsylvania Dutch. The Amish are religious but the P.D.s are ethnic. German, to be specific.”
He was silent, probably pouting.
“That’s my best impression of you,” I said.
“Very funny.”
It was getting dark when I noticed a sign down the road. QUILTER’S REST, it said. I turned into the small and half-empty parking lot. The place was unbearably quaint, trimmed with a half-mile of white bric-a-brac, the office window framing an unlit kerosene lantern.
A plump woman in a light blue dress, white bonnet, and yellow apron checked us in. A cigarette butt with a tendril of smoke rising from it lay in an ashtray on the counter.
“Any place to eat around here?” I asked wearily, filling out a form and having trouble remembering my license plate number.
Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5) Page 2