Crimson Eve

by Brandilyn Collins

  No impact. No shattering glass.

  Just silence. Utter, vast silence. Then multiple horns, a man’s curse, a slamming car door. The driver of the van stalked toward Thornby, fist raised, face red-purple. Carla caught the jerk of Thornby’s left arm as he hit his door lock button.

  Heart scudding, Carla headed on up Sprague. A small side street approached on the left. Elizabeth Street. Carla knew it would hook up one short block later with Sprague running the other direction. Off Elizabeth, she would only be able to turn left and follow the one-way street. Not good. Thornby would know which way she’d gone. On the other hand, following that route would soon take her back to the freeway. She could get on 90 headed either east or west, or go across it and lose herself on city streets on the other side.

  She lurched her wheel to the left. Another fast check in the mirror showed Thornby in the intersection, trying to ease his SUV around the irate driver, who stood in front of him, shaking both fists.

  Maybe Thornby was busy enough that he hadn’t seen her turn.

  Carla aimed for Sprague, vaguely noticing that she was passing a car dealership on her right. Then the realization pierced her thoughts. Cars. Lots and lots of cars.

  Without second thought, she veered right into the dealership, forcing herself to slow as she hit the lot. For the first time she noticed the large sign — Spokane Chrysler. Near it, a shiny red PT Cruiser rose high on a lift. She drove up an aisle, new Chryslers on her right and left, the showroom farther to her right. Carla prayed for a parking space in the midst of the new models. Like a miracle, one appeared four cars up. She pulled into it, hoping no car salesman would spot her and trot over, asking her to park in visitor spaces near the showroom. She found herself between two sedans. Perfect. Her car could not be seen from the side street.

  In a flash she cut off the engine, yanked out the keys, and shoved them into her purse. She whipped her head around, looking for salesmen, looking for Thornby. No black Durango. Maybe he’d go straight once he pulled out of the intersection mess, passing Elizabeth. Or maybe he’d seen her turn and would follow. But then he would only have eyes for Sprague going the other direction.

  Still, she couldn’t be sure. What if he figured out her move, circled back?

  Carla had mere minutes to get out of here.

  She spotted the tall, slim frame of a young man halfway down the aisle of cars, his back to her. A salesman?

  Grabbing her purse, she flung herself out of her Toyota. Pain sliced through her ankle. She bent over, hissing through her teeth. This is it, girl, you’d better make it work.

  Carla forced herself upright, ran a hand through her hair, shoved her purse up her shoulder. Hoping to heaven she didn’t look like some creature dragged in from the back swamp. She hobbled away from her car, not wanting to draw attention to where it was parked. When she was three vehicles away, she called out, “Excuse me!”

  The young man turned. Raised one hand in a wave and started a graceful lope toward her.

  A salesman for sure. And her salvation, if she played her cards right.

  Carla limped to meet him, doing her best to wrench her grimace into a smile.

  FORTY-SIX

  I’ve been told my due date is April 19. Two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. Dr. Hughes calculated the date based on the day I told him I got pregnant.

  April 19. That’s it, girl, you’d better make it work.

  Dr. Hughes is okay. He’s nice and sort of quiet. Very confident. Makes me feel like he knows what he’s doing, and I can tell he loves his job. Babies have been his life for a lot of years now. Still, I hate being examined. It’s terrible to have to take off all your clothes and spread your legs on a table for some old man you don’t even know — even if he is a doctor. Maybe it’s stupid, ’cause I know he’s done this forever and I suppose he’s seen everything a billion times, but I’m not some other patient, I’m me. No matter how nice he is to me, when the whole thing’s over I feel dirty. I’m just glad the nurse is in there with me.

  Her name is Lisa, and she’s wonderful. Heaven knows I need nice people in my life right now. She told me I can call her Lisa, even though she’s older than my mother. Maybe she’s this way with all the patients, but she seems to give extra care to me. Takes time to talk to me and asks how I’m doing — not physically, like Dr. Hughes does, but emotionally. She knows it’s hard for me. I’ve told her I have all sorts of emotions about this whole thing. I told her all about Scott and how he agreed to the adoption because he couldn’t stand the thought of abortion. And, of course, Lisa and Dr. Hughes both know the baby’s going to Bryson. (I try not to think of Mrs. My-Husband. The baby’s going to Bryson.) Although nobody else knows about the adoption, they’re not allowed to tell anyone. Lisa says I’m very brave to do this. She knows pregnancy is hard. But she says the time will pass (sometimes I wonder), and then I’ll have a clear conscience, and the Hanleys will be happy with their baby.

  If only she knew.

  Sometimes I so want to tell her everything. Sometimes I think she’s the only person I could tell, because she’s a nurse and she’s not supposed to talk about patients. But every time the story jumps on my tongue, I force it back. Problem is, the secret doesn’t involve just me. It involves Bryson. And I promised him I’d never tell anyone.

  Dr. Hughes says the baby looks very healthy. And a good size.

  Mom is talking to me again. In grunts. What else can she do, when she got herself in the same fix at my age. At least I’m giving the baby up for adoption. At least my baby will be raised by a loving mother.

  God, please let Mrs. My-Husband be loving, even if I hate her.

  The court loves her, that’s for sure. Mrs. Demarco, the woman who’s visiting the Hanley home for all the legal stuff, has declared her and Bryson to be fit parents. Worthy of adopting my baby. Mrs. Demarco has also counseled with me to be sure I want this. I’ve told her I do.

  Everybody at school knows I’m pregnant now. Once a few friends found out, the story went everywhere. I’ve told people the baby’s being given up for adoption, but not to whom. I’m not allowed to talk about that to anyone but Scott. Not that I’d want to anyway. A lot of girls just say I’m crazy for not “getting rid of it.” My mom says the same thing. Sometimes I wish I had. I’m still sick, and I’m tired all the time, and life just isn’t fun. My body isn’t mine. There’s this thing growing in it, and it’s making me fat. I can’t fit into my clothes anymore. I’m really ugly!

  Worst of all, I can’t be with Bryson. I’m still working every day after school, and he whispers that we’ll meet “soon,” but it never happens. His senator stuff keeps him real busy, and when he’s not doing that job, he’s working on his national campaign. The polls show that if the election happened today, he’d win for sure. That makes him very happy. And he’s thrilled thinking about the baby. I want to be happy for him. I am. I love him, how can I not be happy? But I’m beginning to feel like a cow. Just a big, old baby carrier. Like that’s the only reason he cares for me anymore.

  Meanwhile Scott is so sweet to me. Always asking how I feel. Half the time when I’m with him I cry. I just can hardly take how nice he’s being. I don’t deserve it. He talks about the baby and wonders if in the future we’ll wish we had her or him ourselves. He’s committed to the adoption, but sometimes he wants to take it all back. Says we could get married. He’d quit school and somehow we’d make it work. But deep down we both know how hard that would be. I hold him and tell him don’t worry, we’ll have other babies when we’re ready. This is for the best. And I mean it when I tell him that. I love Scott, even if that love gets crowded out by my love for Bryson. Scott I can have for the rest of my life. Bryson I will never have. Not to live with. Not to be with forever. I know that now. How stupid I was to think otherwise.

  How much I’ve learned in the past three months.

  I wish I didn’t have to learn any of it.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The salesman looked young, midtwenti
es at the most. Blond hair, cut short. He was dressed in slacks, a light blue shirt, and striped tie. Sunglasses with small, bright blue lenses. Carla could see the smile on his full lips as he approached. His relaxed and friendly expression, the ease in his walk only frazzled her. She’d love to enjoy the same calm view of the world right now, but couldn’t he see she didn’t have time!

  Not to mention her ankle was killing her.

  She threw wild glances toward Elizabeth Street, out toward Sprague. She’d never seen Thornby drive by. Maybe he had gone straight up Sprague, not knowing she’d turned. If so, how long until he realized his mistake and came down Sprague in the other direction — right past the dealership?

  As the salesman drew near, Carla could make out a few light freckles on his cheeks. He slid his sunglasses up until they stuck against his forehead, revealing light blue, almost translucent eyes. They met in front of a red PT Cruiser, the young man holding out his hand. “Hi, I’m Brandon. Welcome to Spokane Chrysler. And your name is?”

  “Oh, um. Carla.”

  “Hi, Carla.”

  “Hi.” Girl, you’d better start talking — fast.

  Brandon frowned and gestured with his chin toward her ankle. “Wow, that doesn’t look good. So swollen. Does it hurt? You should have it up.”

  Carla licked her lips. “Yeah, I just did it. Haven’t had time to wrap it or anything. But anyway it doesn’t matter; I need to test drive a car. This car. Now.” She slapped the hood of the red PT Cruiser.

  Brandon blinked at her impatience, then grinned. “This one, huh. Right now.”

  “Yes!”

  “Not a blue one or a green one. This one.” He waved his hand at the Cruiser.

  He was teasing her. Fine. He could play all he wanted once they got in the car. She hobbled up close to his face. “I. Want. This car. Now. Are you going to take me for a test drive — or do I need to find somebody else?”

  He pulled his head back, mouth crimped in amusement, eyes mock widening. Not one bit rattled. He raised both hands, palms out. The third finger on his left hand curled inward as if stuck there. “Oookay. Let’s do it.” He reached for a key in his pocket, walked to a small box attached to the passenger side door and unlocked it, withdrawing the Cruiser’s key. “Who’s drivin’, you or me?”

  Carla twisted her head toward Elizabeth. Her hand slashed the air. “You.”

  Click. The locks popped open. Brandon moved to open the door for her, extending his hand in invitation. “Here you go.”

  Carla jumped inside, pulled her arms tight in her lap, and slid down in the seat. She flipped down the visor, peered in the mirror at Sprague Street. No black Durango.

  Brandon slipped behind the wheel and eyed her curiously. “You comfortable sitting that low?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” Carla could feel beads of sweat on her forehead. Go, just go!

  He surveyed her for a moment longer, biting the inside of his mouth, as if not quite sure what to make of this strange woman.

  Brandon pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes and started the car. Backed smoothly from the parking space. Within thirty seconds, they’d turned left onto Sprague. Carla cast furtive looks all around, then pulled her head down between her shoulders, vulturelike.

  He threw her a glance and cleared his throat. “So, Carla. Let me tell you about the Cruiser.”

  “Okay. Just . . . keep driving while you do.”

  His mouth curved. “Don’t have a lot of choice in this traffic.”

  She tipped her head — guess not.

  “I call this the Swiss army knife of cars. There’s so many different ways to configure the seats. The back seats fold flat, tumble, and pull out easily because they have rollers on them. The seat you’re in also folds flat. So for cargo space, you got all kinds of ways to carry something wide or long.”

  Carla pulled her top lip between her teeth. They were crossing the freeway. Still no black Durango in sight.

  “These are really popular cars. They’re our bread and butter on the lot. Very fuel efficient. It’s got a four-cylinder engine, with one hundred fifty horsepower. In 1998, Daimler-Chrysler merged with Mercedes, did you know that? They’ve parted ways now, but still, with this Cruiser, you get Mercedes parts and performance at a Chrysler price.”

  They hit a red light and stopped. Carla checked the visor mirror for cars behind them. No sign of Thornby.

  Brandon turned to face her, amused fascination on his face. He ducked his head, shoulders hitching. “So . . . tell me. Who we hidin’ from?”

  Carla’s eyes snapped to his. He looked as calm as she felt fried. She tried to follow his lead, willing her muscles to soften, her breathing to even out. Easier thought than done. Adrenaline still rushed through her like a freight train. “Nobody.”

  “Really.” He pointed his nose toward the road, looking at her from the corner of a half-opened eye.

  “Okay. Somebody then. Is that enough?”

  The light turned green. Brandon drove forward. “Boyfriend?”

  Carla hesitated. “Yeah.”

  Concern flicked across his face. He gestured toward her ankle. “He didn’t do that to you, did he?”

  “No. Yes.”

  Brandon aimed her a disconcerted look.

  Carla blew out a breath. “Can you just drive and stop asking questions?”

  “Okay.” He nodded slowly. “But something tells me you’re not all that interested in hearing about this Cruiser.”

  No judgment in his voice, or anger. No, Hey, lady, let me take you back; I’ve got cars to sell. It struck Carla that she’d done to him what Thornby had done to her. Lured him to a potential sale under false pretenses. Not that she wanted to kill this likeable guy, but still. He’d have a right to be mad. He worked pure commission like she did.

  She pressed her head back against the seat. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four. Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  He gave another of his slow nods. Checked her left hand. “Not married.”

  “No.”

  “Me either.” He sniffed. “I was engaged once.”

  “What happened?”

  “She called it quits.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “It’s okay. For the best, I guess.”

  Carla folded her arms. Normalcy was beginning to return to her body, largely, she suspected, due to Brandon’s easy manner. It just sort of rolled off the guy, pulled her in.

  They reached an intersection and he turned left. By now they were far from the dealership. Another long gaze in all directions told Carla that Thornby was not around. She’d really done it. She’d shaken him. She exhaled loud and long, then dared to sit a little straighter in her seat.

  “So.” Brandon checked the side mirror before changing lanes. “Want me to take you back now? Apparently you got away from . . . whoever.”

  Take her back. That was just it — she couldn’t go back. Carla gazed ahead through the windshield, trying to figure her next move. She was going to have to convince this guy to let her off somewhere else, allow her car to sit in his parking lot — in the middle of all the new models, where it wasn’t supposed to be.

  Best not mention where she’d parked.

  Brandon lifted his hand. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Oh, boy. “It’s a long story.”

  He shrugged. “I can take a longer route.”

  Carla managed a little smile. In the next second it faded as tiredness swept over her. This was the first time she’d been able to let down in hours. She rubbed her forehead, dropped her head in her hands. Breathed in, breathed out.

  “That bad, huh.”

  She pulled her fingers away. Pressed her head back against the seat. No lies would come to mind, nothing to placate him as to her strange behavior. She simply had no energy to create. “You want to know the truth? It’s not a bo
yfriend. Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  Silence. Carla could almost hear the wheels in Brandon’s head turn as he wondered whether to believe her. “Really.” He emphasized the first syllable. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. That is, not completely. I kind of know.”

  “Kind of?” He threw her a questioning glance.

  “I know who, and I know what I did to make a certain person feel . . . at risk, but that was years ago. Why he sent a hit man after me now, I can’t entirely say.”

  Brandon gave one of his slow nods, then mushed his lips, as if trying to decide between the first of a dozen follow-up questions. “Have you called the cops?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t know which ones to trust.” She told him about the state trooper.

  “Wow.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You think the police are in on this? Must be some mighty powerful person who wants you dead.”

  Carla surveyed him from the corner of her eye, unsure if he was placating her. She’d slept in her clothes, her makeup had to be a wreck, her hair barely combed. She was sweaty and no doubt smelled. He probably thought she’d escaped from some loony bin.

  She sighed, searching for some other topic of conversation. How about the weather? Football? How goes the car business? Her focus landed on Brandon’s left hand, the third finger unnaturally curved against the steering wheel.

  “What happened to your finger?”

  He glanced at it, a rueful expression crossing his face. “It’s a long story.”

  “Thought we were taking a longer route.”

  He threw her a half smile — one for you.

  They drove without speaking for a couple of blocks. The awkward quiet tugged at her ears. This kid had saved her life. He deserved . . . something.

  “So, Carla. Think it’s safe to take you back to the lot now?”

  She cleared her throat. “I can’t go back there. I can’t get back in my car. He’ll be looking for it.”