by J. T. Hardy
"This isn't the first time I've had to run."
She paused, and for a moment I feared she might throw me out after all. Then she squared her shoulders. "Well, we have options."
"There's no we here. I'm not dragging you any further into this mess."
She held up a finger. "Non-negotiable. Unless you want to revisit the police thing?"
"Cops and my life don't go well together."
"Then you're stuck with me a little longer, because I'm not letting you run off after hearing a story like that. You're the only PTA at work I actually like. Give me a sec." She drummed her fingers on the counter a few times. I waited. I had no good ideas at the moment, so why not?
"All right," she said. "You're coming with me to Key Largo. No one would search for you there."
No way was the proper response. I liked Libby. I didn't want to see her get hurt. But she was nice to have around--hell, helpful to have around.
"That's not going to solve anything." Though a condo on the ocean with backup sounded better than staying alone at the cheap motel I'd targeted as my safe house.
"It'll get you out of town for a few days, and give me time to talk some sense into you about calling the cops."
The out-of-town part wasn't a bad idea, but even Libby couldn't convince me to call the police.
"I guess that would be okay. Thank you."
"Good." She took out her phone. "Don't freak out."
"Who are you calling?"
"Yes, I'd like to report a suspicious van in my neighborhood. Yes, I'll hold."
"What are you doing?"
She pressed the phone to her chest. "I said, don't freak out," she whispered fast, then put the phone back to her ear. "Hi, yes, there's a van that's been lurking outside the building for the last fifteen minutes. Black, tinted windows. I've never seen this van before and there's a playground down the block."
"This is a bad idea," I whispered back. I didn't want innocent cops hurt. "These guys are dangerous."
Libby shushed me with another flick of her hand. "Hang on, someone's getting out of the car. Older guy, creepy. I think he has a weapon."
I raised my eyebrows. The girl was good.
"Thank you so much." She hung up and gave me a wry grin. "Now we wait."
The cops arrived faster than I'd have thought possible. Libby had grabbed her overnight bag and we were waiting in the lobby, watching. The second the van was rousted, we moved.
"We'll get your things," she said on the way to her car, "and then we'll head south."
She took an intricate route to the storage unit, filled with random turns and a few double backs. I kept an eye out for a tail--paying a lot more attention this time. I was still kicking myself for missing the van earlier.
The moon wasn't up yet and darkness covered us nicely as we put distance between us and the building. Libby took enough turns to expose--and then shake off--anyone following.
Either her dad was special forces, or she'd had to evade a few tails herself. I guess I wasn't the only one with secrets.
"Think we're clear," I said, hoping I was right. "But I'll keep watching."
"Good idea."
More than one Pretty Boy had been watching me and I'd had no clue they were there until I'd spied the hottie at Frisco's. They knew where I lived, where I worked, and had even followed me from my place to Libby's. More evidence that killing me was no longer the plan.
She glanced over. "That man from this morning--is he part of this? You seemed freaked out after he left."
"I'm not sure." Cavanaugh bugged me, but I couldn't say why exactly. A man with secrets who knew my real name--even if he didn't know he knew it--gave me the jitters. "He had a cop vibe, but no badge."
"Fed? Maybe someone from organized crime?"
"He was asking about a missing woman, so probably not."
She paused. "Private investigator, then?"
"Maybe. He did ask a lot of questions. He could have been hired by the woman's family." That would explain a lot. During those first few years after Mom died, Dad had tried to find out what had killed her--who they were, what they wanted. He'd found nothing but dead ends, but then, we'd never had enough extra cash to hire an investigator. Cavanaugh could be working for someone like Dad, trying to find out what had happened to his wife.
"How is she connected to the hit your dad saw?"
"I have no idea."
"Maybe she witnessed another hit by the same people?"
"It's possible."
We exited the interstate and pulled into the storage lot. Nothing fancy, but it had small units for cheap, and I could access it at any time. I entered my gate code and we drove in.
"It's over there."
The locker could hold far more than I'd ever used, and my worn duffel bag felt tiny sitting there by itself. Dad had given it to me for my sweet sixteen, filled with everything a girl needed to vanish without a trace neatly tucked away inside. We'd used it the first time three weeks later.
I unzipped the bag. Five thousand in emergency cash lay in plastic bags next to a folder with an ID for Grace Kaufmann--who lived in St. Louis--plus a Social Security card and two credit cards. I'd had a fake ID claiming I was eighteen before I'd had a real driver's license. I'd never been able to afford a fake passport. It hadn't been worth wiping out my life's savings to get one.
"Good to go." I shut and locked the locker. Also inside the duffel was a letter canceling my service, and I'd drop that in the mail when I wasn't running for my life.
Libby gave me sidelong glances on the way to the car.
"What?" I asked.
"I'm not sure if I should be impressed or concerned. Did I see fake IDs and a wad of cash?"
"Better if you don't think about it."
"Hard not to."
I stopped. "Listen, Libby, I understand this is freaky shit. I know how it looks, and I don't blame you if you want to walk away now and forget you ever met me."
She considered it. "Are you doing anything illegal?"
No laws existed for pretending to be someone else as long as I didn't defraud anyone. Though the fake IDs crossed a line.
I held my thumb and finger an inch apart. "A teeny bit. But nothing that hurts anyone."
"Such as?"
"I pay my bills no matter what name I use. Changing names is how we stay alive." I just hadn't had to do it since college. Damn it, my PTA license was in this name. Changing that would be way too expensive for my budget.
I tossed the duffel onto the back seat. "How far is it to the Keys?"
"Couple of hours."
"I'll stay a day or two, then I'll be out of your hair."
"You don't have to run. You can call witness protection and tell them what you saw. They'll be able to do something to help."
"I'm sure my dad would have done that had it been an option."
Cool as WITSEC looked on TV, they couldn't do anything to help us hide from what was after us any better than we could do for ourselves. At least we knew how bizarre our story sounded and how dangerous the Pretty Boys were. If I didn't have a bump on my head and green grit in my hair to prove it, I'd think this was all in my mind.
Like I'd once thought it had all been in Dad's mind.
Guilt poked me. When I was fifteen, I'd wondered if the Pretty Boys and the danger were a delusion. I'd been so young when Mom died--my memories of green fire and men with superhuman strength couldn't have been real. Trauma, nothing more. I'd wondered if Dad had been crazy. That made more sense than monsters trying to kill us for unknown reasons. After all, he'd always spotted the Pretty Boys first, and then we'd run. A strange, good-looking man pointed out from a distance wasn't the same as seeing a Pretty Boy up close.
I'd changed my mind when one came for us and I discovered my knuckledusters were damn effective against men who showed no weakness.
And who froze time.
I had Libby watching my back, but Dad had no one watching his, and a memory currently leaking like a sieve.
"You think they went after him, too?"
I nodded. "He said he went to his safe house, but with the tumor..." Too hard to finish that sentence. "I'll feel better when I know he's okay."
"Are you sure about this? You'll be alone."
I shrugged. "Nothing new there."
She headed for the airport while my worry ate at me. Libby sneaked me equally worried looks. Something on her mind, but she was already a good enough friend to keep her mouth shut when I clearly didn't want to talk. Damn, I'd miss this.
"Where's your dad live?"
"Outside Vegas."
She nodded slowly, drove fast. The minutes clicked by in silence.
"What if I come with you?" she said at last.
"No way. Too dangerous."
"It's more dangerous if you go alone." She drummed her fingers on the wheel a few times. "I could use a Vegas trip."
"You've done enough. I can do this on my own."
"I'm sure you can, but you don't know what you're up against, and you're too emotionally distracted to watch your own back."
"Lib, no sane person would offer to come with me. Just asking proves you can't be trusted to make major life decisions."
She glanced in the rearview and shifted lanes. "I'd rather face your demons than mine, okay?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm not going on vacation to the Keys. I'm going to clean out my father's fishing cabin. I'm closest, none of my brothers are man enough to do it, and my mom can't walk in the place without crying, so it's on me." She took a deep breath. The kind I took whenever I thought of my father and that last goodbye. "I don't want to do it either."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked softly.
She shrugged. "Because he was killed two years ago and you're dealing with death right now."
I wanted to ask how he died, but Libby's stiff shoulders and set jaw kept me quiet. Maybe that's why we got along so well. Sisters in silent denial.
"You'll still have to clean out the cabin. Going with me won't change that."
"No, but you'll owe me. You'll have to do it with me or you'll be the worst friend in the entire world. You'll never live that rep down."
I hesitated. She'd been pretty sly calling the cops, and she evaded a tail better than I ever had. And knowing Dad, it would take two of us to convince him to come with me for his own protection.
Libby lifted her chin and huffed like it was all settled. "Accept it, I'm going. Plus, I've got an uncle who runs an exotic gun range off the Vegas strip. He's been hassling me to visit since the funeral, but--" She squeezed the steering wheel and took another breath. "It's hard seeing him. He looks too much like...all I'm saying is, you be my backup, I'll be yours. Deal?"
Staying with her wasn't only better, it was safer.
"Okay. Girls' trip to Vegas, then."
Chapter Six
Even at three in the morning, Vegas sparkled. From the air it was all strings of diamonds in perfect grids, brightest where the strands overlapped. On the ground, the lights blinked and twinkled in every direction and every color--even a sickly neon green that looked way too familiar for my comfort. Flashy as they were, none of the arrows pointing toward riches would show me where my father was.
Hello, Sin City.
If I were a Pretty Boy, this is where I'd live. Everything open all the time, strangers by the thousands arriving every day, distractions galore to keep prying eyes turned away. You could even travel from hotel to hotel and never step out into the light. Fake some "Free Weekend in Vegas" passes and you could lure anyone you wanted here and no one would be the wiser.
I put the rental car on my shiny new credit card since the Pretty Boys had seen Libby and me together. If they figured out who Libby was, they'd eventually pick up her trail on the flight, but using a clean card would buy us some time.
Following the signs, we headed out of the rental lot and tuned onto the 215, headed south, past perfectly squared blocks of houses in desert styles.
Dad lived in Boulder City, about twenty-five miles southeast of Vegas, smack dab between his two favorite things--or so he claimed--Paigow poker and the Hoover Dam. I had my doubts about the poker, but the dam I believed. He had a fascination with construction marvels. We'd stopped at practically every dam, mine, and oil rig we'd passed on our way from town to town.
I called again, but Dad still wasn't answering his phone, nor did he pick up on the alternate burner phone in my go-bag.
"Stop calling," Libby said, yawning, so it sounded more like "cawlig." We'd gotten a little sleep on the plane, but not nearly enough. "If he's safe, he'll call you. If he's not, you might give away his position."
"Right." I stared at my phone. No photos of Dad on it--or of anyone. Blank and empty as the rest of my life.
"We'll find him," she assured me yet again. "But if we don't, we call the police, got it?"
"Got it."
This time, the lie came easy.
Dad's safe house motel was across the street from the Hoover Dam Museum, and walking distance to every Dam-related business in town. An excuse to say, "I had lunch at the Dam diner, then headed over to the Dam store to grab some Dam gear."
Always cracked him up.
"Wow," Libby said as we pulled into the parking lot. "I was expecting something more...sleazy."
"Same here."
The hotel was charming. A cross between a southern plantation and the Alamo, it looked like the quaint vacation spot for newlyweds or couples off for a romantic weekend. I'd never have thought to look for Dad there--aside from the Dam name of course--and I doubted the Pretty Boys knew of his dam fixation.
We walked into a floral-scented lobby decorated in rich woods and thick, elegant moldings. The furniture looked new, but the styles were as classic as the rest of it, with deep browns, grays, and the right amount of maroon accents.
I particularly liked the maroon-and-gray-striped throw pillows.
One sleepy-eyed guy stood behind the registration counter. He perked up a little as we approached.
"Good morning," he said. "Checking in?"
"Meeting my Dad. He should have checked in earlier today. Our reservation is under Henry Kaufmann."
He shifted to the computer and asked for my ID. I handed him the new one. "I don't see him, and there's no reservation for Kaufmann."
"Maybe it's under his girlfriend's name. Harper?"
He checked. "No, no Harpers either. Are you sure it was this hotel?"
"That's what he said."
"We're not the only Dam hotel in town, you know." He grinned.
Definitely this hotel.
I grinned back, though my heart felt shredded. "That must be it. I'll check one of the others. Thanks."
Libby followed me out of the hotel. "Right hotel?"
"Right hotel."
"Grace, it doesn't mean anything."
"It means he never made it here."
She pulled open the car door. "But it doesn't mean he isn't home fast asleep."
"Let's find out."
We pulled up to the Spanish-style apartment complex Dad had lived in for the past year. I'd forgotten how orange the stucco walls were, even in the lights from the parking lot. The terra cotta tile roofs all matched, as did the transplanted trees that didn't belong in a Nevada desert.
I parked at the far end of the building, lights off. "See anything weird?"
She shook her head.
We exited the car and quietly shut the doors. Libby dug around in the trunk and found a tire iron while I pulled out my knuckledusters. TSA tended to frown on those in carry-on luggage, but I'd checked my duffel. Worth the extra time at baggage claim to bring them along.
I put them on.
"Ready?"
"Affirmative."
Dad never lived anywhere that didn't have multiple exits, and Vista Canyon Villas was no exception. Each building stood two stories, with heavily walled balconies instead of rails out front. We'd climbed down an emergency fire ladder more than once in the middle of the night.
We took the stairs. Sin City might be going strong at--I glanced at my watch--five-thirty a.m., but it was quiet in the suburbs. One soft radio played soft music from the only apartment with the hall light on, two units down from Dad's.
Along the breezeway, an actual breeze chilled my skin and I smelled bacon. Somebody worked the early shift. We sidestepped a scattering of red pebbles outside Dad's door and braced ourselves.
Libby pantomimed knocking on the door.
I shook my head and showed her the key. I pressed my ear to the door and the door opened a crack. My breath stopped. Dad would never leave his door unlocked, let alone open.
I glanced at Libby and she hefted the tire iron. I pushed the door. It swung slowly inward.
Nothing. Quiet as any apartment at five in the morning.
We entered, eyes and ears alert for trouble. Streetlight streamed in through the window and cast shadows on what little furniture he had.
"Was he robbed?" she whispered.
"No, it's always like this." But the worn easy chair was angled away from the couch, and one of the dining room chairs was on its side. "Except for the knocked-over furniture."
I pushed down my dread. A break-in only suggested they'd come here looking for him. Maybe they'd kicked the chair over in frustration when they'd found the place empty.
Libby held out a hand. "Stay back." She crept past me, leading with the tire iron. I stayed against the wall and scanned the room.
Dad's place was sterile. No pictures hung on the walls. No photos on the shelves. No TV or stereo. Aside from the bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, nothing of him existed in this place. So different from Libby's apartment, filled with images of love and laughter and family.
My reflection stared at me from a mirror over the desk that had to have come with the place. If I had to run again, this was my future--me standing in a generic apartment in a random town, nothing to show for my life but some clothes and whatever mementos fit in a single go-bag.