Breanne gasps and visibly starts shaking. “This makes no sense. How have they already confirmed that we’ve died?” she asks frantically. Before I have time to comment, the man comes back out and ushers us inside.
Once inside I glance around the place. It’s not very big and it’s overly cluttered. In the front of the building are three antique used cars in what I assume this guy considers his show room. None of them are in great shape; all of them have rust spots and tires from era’s different than their make.
Behind the cars to the left is a beat up blue plaid couch and a leather recliner that must have been used as a scratching post for one or more cats. Both face a pre-historic TV with a dial and antenna. To the right is a desk that must belong to this man. It’s covered with dirty dishes and newspapers. My nose flinches at the overpowering smell of cigarette smoke and coffee, and I sense he’s staring at me.
“Where are we?” I ask, as I finish my visual tour.
“You aren’t from these parts, are ya?” he questions. He unscrews a tin and stuffs a wad of tobacco chew inside his lower lip and eyes us both up and down.
“No, we aren’t.” I take Breanne’s hand and squeeze it. “I’m Steven and this is my wife Elyse.” Breanne coughs likely out of surprise that I finally remembered the names of our pretend fake identities.
He sits on the edge of his desk, watching me.
“No, you’re that guy,” he says slowly, processing some memory. Shaking a finger at me he continues, “I thought you looked familiar.” He slaps his knee, apparently proud he’s made a connection.
I toss him a look like I’m not following so he wordlessly turns on the TV, which goes straight to coverage of the crash.
“See! Your face is everywhere man. A few guys stopped by yesterday day asking if I’d seen any survivors. After they confirmed you were dead, though, I never expected to see you here.”
“What men? Police?” I ask, hopeful.
“Didn’t seem like police to me,” is all he says under his breathe, and I know he’s not being forthcoming. His demeanor has changed from hospitable to serious and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“We haven’t been able to get cell reception. Do you have a phone we can use?”
The man’s eyes volley between us, his eyes darkening. “No one knows you’re here?” he questions.
I don’t respond right away. Assessing the situation takes less than a nanosecond; we’re fucked.
“We’ve had a pretty rough few days. If we could use your phone we’d appreciate it.”
One corner of his mouth pulls up slightly and he chuckles wickedly.
“Unfortunately, phone’s out. Don’t really have money for it. I don’t get too much business out here so it’s the last of the bills to be paid,” he shrugs and spits his chew into a Styrofoam cup.
I notice him eyeing Breanne and pull her closer. He spits again before walking behind his desk where he rifles through a pile of disorganized papers.
“This guy is creeping me out,” she whispers in my ear.
“I got some paperwork to go through in the storage room. I’m not open for another hour so if you two want to look around or have a cup of coffee, make yourselves at home,” he says, walking to the back of the building.
Concentrating, I look around the run down showroom. “How much cash do you have?” I ask her.
“Cash?” she questions and opens her purse and digs for her wallet. Luckily, we both stopped at the ATM the day before the trip. She takes out the cash and counts $400.00 and hands it to me as I take the cash out of my wallet as well.
“All together we’ve got $964.00,” I report and then look around.
“You think we should buy a car?” she questions, following my gaze.
“What choice do we have? This guy knows something he’s not telling us. I’ve got a bad feeling. His phone supposedly doesn’t work, the newspapers have confirmed we’re dead and men who may or may not be police officers are out looking for us and we know shady people are involved with the crash. I want to get out of here!” I whisper, counting each obstacle on my fingers.
“Ok, let’s do it. Let’s get a car and get out of here.”
“You stay here and check out some of the cars. I’ll go get him,” I instruct.
She nods and reaches for her necklace, anxiously twisting it between her fingers. I kiss her cheek and try to reassure her that I’ll only be a few feet away. As I pull back she turns into me, brushing her lips against mine. I can practically taste her fear. Another time, another place and I would have done more to comfort her. But being what things are, I turn and make my way towards the storage room.
As I approach, I swear I hear him talking. I step quietly, not wanting to alert him that I’m coming so I can determine if he has someone back there or if he’s listening to the radio. As I approach the cracked door I know my instincts were right. This fucker is on the phone! Listening intently, I hear his side of the conversation.
“What’s it you’d like me to do, sir?” he asks. Many seconds pass before he speaks again. “Alright, I’ll keep them here as long as I can but I want my money today,” he demands. A few more seconds pass. “Uh-huh. No, they are alone. They tried to give me fake names though. OK. Wait, what do you want with them? Yes, sir.”
He hangs up and lets out a few expletives under his breath. I quietly turn and run back to Breanne and explain what I heard.
“They’re going kill us, Drew!” she whispers, panicked.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, and pull her towards the door.
“And go where?” she asks, pulling her arm away. “Walk down the side of the road and hope a nice civilian picks us up? I don’t see that working out too well for us.”
“Well what’s your idea?”
“Why don’t we go back there and force him to let us use his phone?” she suggests.
I consider this. “Or, we can take a few sets of keys from that board and find a car that matches,” I lift my chin signaling for her to look behind her where a wooden slab screwed to the wall contains several hooks and sets of keys.
“You want to steal a car? He’ll call the cops!”
“Cops? You think he’s going to want cops involved in this?” I question.
“Fine,” she agrees.
I walk to the board and start going through the keys, thinking they’ll be labeled by make and model. Unfortunately, these old piece-of-shit cars are categorized by nicknames this asshole has given to each one; Yellow Canary, Blue Bertha. The list goes on and on.
“You’ll never find a match in time,” he says, coming up from behind us.
“Then help us. We have money, too. Whatever they are paying you, I’ll double it,” I promise.
“They’ll kill me,” he states.
“They’re probably going to kill you anyway. Help us and we’ll help you.”
Uncertain, he walks between us to the board with keys and picks one off the wall. “First car outside the doors. It has a full tank of gas. Go left out of the lot for about six miles and you’ll be able to get on the highway,” he says, handing me the keys.
“Thank you,” I express appreciatively and extend my hand, letting my voice linger.
“Carl. The names Carl.” He shakes my hand forcefully.
“Thank you, Carl.”
“Don’t stop in town. Two came looking for you but there are more than that around,” he divulges.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Just go, the clock is ticking.”
I do as he says and we head for the door. We get in the car and I put the keys into the ignition, start the car and peel out onto the road headed left towards the highway.
Chapter Thirteen
Trust
Breanne
Inside the cherry-red Buick LeSabre I quickly fasten my seatbelt. For an old car, it’s in surprisingly good shape. A stereotypical tree shaped, pine scented air freshener dangles from the rear-view mirror. The oversized burgundy le
ather seats are comfortably worn in, with Pinot Noir colored carpet flowing throughout the vehicle, seamlessly blending into the dashboard and other parts of the interior. It looks brand new, though I’m sure it’s original to the car.
The dashboard, which is a blend of burgundy and wood paneling, coupled with the spacious interior gives the front row a cockpit appearance and I feel the need to say a quick prayer. When I close the passenger side door I noted how heavy it was; this thing is built like a tank! Apparently, that is exactly what we need. I just hope it’s as reliable in reality as I’ve built it up to be in my mind.
The brilliant red, orange and yellow leaves blur into one shade of autumn as Drew speeds along the two-lane road. I can barely feel the smooth acceleration. The speedometer’s gauge quickly reaches 60 miles per hour but from inside it feels like sailing on calm water. The only thing that gives away the amount of horsepower is the hum of the engine, which is raspy at times. I don’t know much about cars but I wonder if it sounds loud because it’s old, or if mufflers are built differently nowadays. How odd to think that a car built in the 90’s is old.
With shaking hands I repeatedly glance over my shoulder, anxiously wondering how long we have until the two men who have been looking for us come speeding up from behind. Drew, on the other hand, is deep in thought and otherwise expressionless. To look at him, you would never come to the conclusion that we are in deep shit. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been in control and composed the majority of the time despite our circumstances. He must have the uncanny ability to compartmentalize and rise to any challenge…including me.
“What the hell do we do now?” I ask Drew. “What would those men want with us? How could they have confirmed we’re dead if people are searching for us?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They don’t plan on us making it home alive,” he explains.
Internally, I replay his words. They don’t plan on us making it home alive. Didn’t Drew say these very words when we were first in the woods? Why, then, am I shocked? While I’ve known people sabotaged the plane, somehow I thought or maybe hoped, it would be over once we were out of the woods, no pun intended. Needing something to do, I fumble with my purse to find my phone and turn it on. Still no signal. I sigh and stare out the window.
“How much battery do you have left?” Drew asks.
“Forty-two percent,” I reply flatly. My adrenaline rush has ended and I am exhausted. I wonder if I have that much left in my own battery.
“Leave it on so we can keep checking. It might waste more juice to keep turning it on and off,” he hypothesizes.
“What do we do when we get a signal? Call the police? Our family? Who can we trust?” I fire off in rapid succession. “What if they are watching our families and they are in danger, too?”
The thought of my kids being in harm’s way is too much to bear. I take out the picture and stare at their faces. I am desperate to see them, to hear their voices, but keeping them safe outweighs any needs I have.
“I need a minute to think,” he states. The uncertainty in his voice makes me uneasy. Twisting the charm of my necklace between my fingers I desperately wish the meaning of this gem would hold true for once. Please, God! Give me a sign! Minutes pass and, as usual, nothing happens. I accept that I’m grasping at straws.
“It’s going to be ok,” Drew says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. How does he always know when I need him?
“How are you so sure?” I ask, trying to conceal my emotion.
“It has to be,” he shrugs, not taking his eyes off the road.
“The odds really aren’t in our favor.”
“They haven’t been in our favor this whole time, and we’ve made it this far,” he rationalizes.
He’s right. What are the odds of being in a plane crash, or getting lost in the wilderness, or being biten by a rattlesnake and surviving? No, the odds have not been on our side. Horrified by the probability, I ponder over the odds of outsmarting trained hit men. This isn’t good.
We must have gone about six miles because houses begin replacing the sporadic tree coverage and fields. Up ahead a lone stoplight blinks yellow; we must be approaching the small town. Decelerating to comply with the speed limit I think how unnecessary it is. It’s after 8 o’clock in the morning and the streets are completely empty. My imagination gets the better of me, conjuring up images of armed gunmen standing far enough out of view from us but able to watch our every move.
Shaking my head of the image, I search our surroundings for any indication of where we are; a sign or storefront with the town name, anything. But there’s nothing. Besides a gas station there are only a handful of businesses that comprise this town. A small grocery store, post office, bank and barbershop are all I can see. None of them look open. Even if they were, none of them would do us any good; well except maybe the grocery store. But taking Carl’s advice, we continue towards the highway though I badly want something to eat.
A few miles in the distance I see an overpass. We must be getting closer to the highway as other cars have begun to appear on the road. There is nothing suspicious about them; they all fit in. Regardless, my muscles tense to the point of pain each time one passes by.
Yards before the onramp I spot a fast-food restaurant and a truck stop. Saliva pools in my mouth. I can’t be sure if it’s my imagination or real, but I swear I smell coffee and deep-fried hash browns. Tossing Drew a sideways glance it’s obvious Drew has noticed as well.
“Yes, we can stop,” he mutters, then flashes me a weak smile.
“Thank God!” I exclaim. “I don’t think I’d last much longer.” We both know our ability to keep going will be much greater if we are well fed.
We pull up to the drive through and I give Drew my order; a sausage, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich and a large coffee with cream and sugar. He chuckles and shakes his head. I’m about to ask what he finds so funny when my phone begins buzzing. A notification pops up letting me know I have eighteen new voicemails! I am ecstatic; we have reception! I gasp and throw myself at Drew, taking him by surprise.
“We have reception! We have reception!” I chant as I shake him. I am both relieved and excited! Could this be a sign that this ordeal is almost over?
Returning my embrace he quietly tells me, “Go ahead and call them. They deserve to know you’re ok.”
I pull back. “Are you sure? Do you think it’s safe?”
He doesn’t need to answer; we both know that nothing is certain. So, as we sit in line to order I dial my home number. It rings, and rings, and rings before the answering machine picks up. I wish I had thought about this scenario before I called. Do I leave a message or not? Yes, I should. But, what the hell should I say? Improvisation is not one of my strengths.
“Kids, it’s mom. I’m alive and I’m doing everything I can to make it back to you,” my voice begins to crack. “Please call me as soon as you get this. If I don’t hear from you I’ll call back soon. I love you all so much,” I say, and then I hang up.
Silently my body shakes as I choke down my sobs. I rest my elbow on the windowsill and hold my head up with my hand, covering my eyes. To wait all this time for the opportunity to hear my kids’ voices again and not be able to reach them is heartbreaking.
“You’ll call back in a little while and you’ll talk with them,” he reassures me. “Do you want to call your dad or the nanny?”
Of course! Why didn’t I think of that! Drew pulls up and orders while I wipe my tears and get my sobbing under control. Tears blur my vision and I accidentally hit the voicemail button instead of accessing my contacts. I’m surprised to see that a number of messages have been left by the investigator working on Mark’s case. Hmm. Intrigued, I listen to all five of his messages.
Curveball Page 20