Crimson Eve

by Brandilyn Collins

  Jilke knew he was not alone in what he did. Successful politicians like Bryson Hanley didn’t rocket to the top without someone watching their backside. “Protect your man” was the ancient philosophy of those in Jilke’s shoes — and with Bryson Hanley he’d had a lot to protect. A brilliant politician, charmer of the voter. And Hanley cared about the common folks; he truly did. He would make a strong president, the kind the US needed. Jilke would be at his side when the last votes were counted, when the victory was announced, when the confetti fell. Like Hanley, he had worked all his life for those glorious moments.

  But like many men of strength before him, Hanley’s soul had been woven with a fatal flaw. Fatal, that is, were it not for Jilke’s protection.

  The phone rang once in his ear. Jilke pictured Hanley coming in the door of his Washington office tomorrow, heady with the poll results, confident in his trajectory. Ignorant of those things of which he must remain ignorant.

  Hanley had committed a most egregious error, one that stunned even Jilke, who knew his chameleon abilities so well. He had kept a fact — a very important fact — from Jilke for sixteen years. Only the blurting of a flustered and frightened Tanya Evans had enlightened Jilke with the news.

  He’d acted immediately, confident that fate had alerted him at the right moment. Any further in the campaign, and were such news to leak it would devastate the entire Hanley camp. Jilke had not told Hanley he’d learned the truth. He simply took it upon himself to clean up the mess.

  The phone picked up. “Bruce here.”

  Jilke kept his voice even. He would need a double dose of antianxiety meds tonight. “Where’s your target, Bruce?”

  “At work. Been watching all day.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her car’s still in the parking garage.”

  Jilke closed his eyes. “You telling me you’ve been watching her car?”

  “That’s how she got here.”

  He flexed his jaw. If his fear proved true, this guy was as good as dead. “Do me a favor if you value your life.” His tone flattened. “Call her office and see if she’s there. I don’t care what story you give the receptionist, just get to her. Call me right back.”

  He snapped his phone closed and waited an interminable three minutes. Too long. By the time his return call came, Jilke knew what he would hear.

  “She’s not there.” Shock wavered Bruce’s voice. The guy knew he’d pay. “They said she left at lunch and never came back.”

  Jilke raged then. Yelled and screamed at the man’s pure, unadulterated stupidity. He knocked papers off his desk, stalked around his office. Spewed every cuss word he’d learned since childhood. When his anger finally drained, leaving him spent and breathless, he threw himself in his desk chair, head pounding.

  “Get to her house, see if she’s there. Then report back.” Jilke smacked off the line and slammed the cell down on his desk.

  She wouldn’t be. He knew that. By now Tanya Evans, a.k.a. “Ellie,” would be halfway to Kanner Lake. Looking to meet up with Carla Radling, who also happened to be missing.

  Two men after two women — and both of them screwed up? How could this happen? What dark fate had set such an unthinkable situation in motion?

  If those two women met, Carla Radling would no longer keep silent. A mother’s wrath was the most furious of forces. Hanley could kiss his campaign good-bye.

  Jilke yanked up his desk phone, punched in the two digits to his secretary. Not for years had he needed to do his own undercover work. But now all bets were off. Either those two women died — today — or his life, all he’d ever dreamed of, was over.

  “Get me on a plane to Spokane. Now.”

  PART THREE

  Collision

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Carla drifted in the murky waters of half-sleep, the shore now near . . . now not . . . A wave lifted her up, edged her forward. She felt the swish of sand around her legs . . . the brush of soft ground beneath her . . .

  Her eyes opened.

  She blinked at a TV set, a white wall with a watercolor print of purple-grey mountains. A dresser with three drawers.

  Reality flooded back.

  Carla jerked her head toward the clock radio near the bed. 3:59. She’d been asleep for an hour and a half.

  Her ankle felt wet. She sat up, examining the towel wrap she’d so carefully placed. The ice had melted and run out of the plastic, soaking the cloth. She moved the soggy pack aside and examined her ankle. A little less puffy. Throbbed less too. But not totally better, not by a long shot.

  Sighing, she sank back against the pillows.

  She needed to get up, get out of here. Rent a car, drive . . . away. Carla closed her eyes, searching for the energy to move. Every limb felt weighted to the bed, her blood like water. Her stomach rumbled. No doubt part of her tiredness was due to hunger. If she could just eat, she’d find the strength to get up. But this hotel didn’t have room ser vice.

  Carla laid a hand against her forehead. A tear blurred one eye and rolled down her temple. Where was she supposed to go? What could she do to make this end?

  How long before Thornby found her here?

  No reason he should find her. No one knew where she was but Brandon.

  That’s one person too many.

  What had she been thinking, letting him hear the false name she used, the room she’d been assigned? She’d just been too exhausted, in too much pain to care.

  But so what if Brandon knew? He’d helped her here. He’d been kind. Beyond that, he didn’t believe her story. The guy thought she was nutty as a loon and probably wouldn’t give her a second thought. He had cars to sell.

  She told herself to get up. But still couldn’t do it.

  Carla shifted her head on the pillow, and her eyes fell on the television remote, sitting near the clock radio. Absently, she picked it up, clicked on the power. The screen spritzed to life —some talk show. Keeping the volume low, she flipped channels until she landed on CNN. Two talking heads were discussing the presidential campaign. The picture switched to a scene of Bryson Hanley in a crowd, smiling and shaking dozens of the faithfuls’ hands, thrust toward him in hope of a touch.

  Carla’s heart turned over.

  She watched him grasp fingers, remembering when he’d held hers with such gentleness. Watched him gaze deep into the eyes of one voter after another, his expression the epitome of sincere promise. She’d seen him in action so many times over the years, and always she reacted the same. Remembering him in love, remembering him in hatred. Pulled toward his charisma, even as she knew it was all a sham.

  How could he have gotten away with his two-facedness all these years?

  At age sixteen she’d believed she was the only one. That’s what he’d wanted her to think. But as she learned the truth about Bryson Hanley, as she grew into adulthood, Carla saw clearly what she could not see then. Hanley was a womanizer. He’d no doubt had many affairs. Were any others with teenagers? Had he gotten anyone else pregnant?

  Carla thought back to the iciness of Bryson’s wife. The woman had mistrusted her from the moment they met. That too could have tipped Carla off, if she hadn’t been so starry-eyed. Mrs. My-Husband had known, all right. Probably not about the affair with Carla, or she’d have found herself without a job in a hurry. But the woman knew about her husband’s dalliances. She took one look at Carla’s face, her youth, and reacted with jealousy and fear. Carla smiled bitterly. Mrs. My-Husband had no doubt been thrilled to hear she’d gotten pregnant by her teenage boyfriend.

  The news flashed from scene to scene of Bryson while the pundits discussed his rise to fame. Bryson at his desk in DC. Speaking to a group of business people in his home state of Washington. Addressing a college graduating class. Breaking ground on a new building that would house unwed mothers and their children. Laughing with his son, his arm around his daughter’s shoulder —

  Carla snapped off the TV.

  She needed to go to the bathroom. She neede
d a drink of water. She needed to leave.

  Carla pushed herself up, swung her legs to the floor. The left ankle immediately throbbed. She winced.

  Jaw set, she stood up, refusing to make a single sound in her pain. She rested on her right foot, left one barely touching the floor. Hobbled a step toward the end of the bed, then a second and a third.

  The ring of the hotel phone shattered the silence.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Mrs. My-Husband is pregnant.

  I heard it on the news tonight. How she and “State Senator Hanley” are ecstatic. How they’ve been wanting to be parents for a long time. The news said a “source” from Bryson’s office confirmed the report. The source — obviously Jilke — explained this is why Catherine Hanley hasn’t been seen in public for the past two months. She’d had infertility problems, he said, and the Hanleys didn’t want to announce the pregnancy until she was well into it.

  Her due date is in April. The baby is a girl.

  April.

  She got pregnant almost the same time I did.

  Maybe they didn’t know right away. Probably not, since Bryson told me her periods weren’t regular. Still, they’ve probably known for at least three months.

  Now it all makes sense. They’ve known for some time they didn’t need my baby. Bryson needed to get rid of me. Jilke found a way.

  What I wonder is — does Bryson believe Jilke’s story about my stealing? Or was Bryson in on that setup from the very beginning?

  I can’t bear to think that’s true. That he would lie to me, and act so betrayed and everything when we talked on the phone.

  If you say one word about Bryson Hanley, we’ll press charges. That was Jilke’s final word to me. If I ever tried to get back at Bryson, like tell anyone I’m carrying his baby, they’d put me in jail. Tell the police and everyone I’m just trying to cause trouble because I got fired. And who would ever believe me over Bryson Hanley? Especially now that everyone’s so happy for Mrs. My-Husband’s pregnancy? Washington’s favorite son — going to be a father at last. The whole state’s grinning.

  I’d be squashed like an ant.

  What they can’t possibly understand is, I would never tell anyway.

  I do think Bryson was in on the setup. I think this is his way of protecting himself.

  Don’t you worry, Bryson Hanley. I can protect myself too. And my baby. You don’t know everything. You can’t keep me down. I’m going to have this baby. I’ve named her Rebecca. (Somehow I know it’s a girl.) And Scott and I will raise her, just like it should have been in the first place.

  I don’t need you, Senator Hanley. Mr. Golden Boy. We both know you’re not all that golden, don’t we?

  Someday I hope the rest of the world knows too.

  SIXTY

  Carla jerked to a halt, heart knocking against her ribs. Who could be calling? Thornby?

  Maybe it was the front desk.

  Brandon.

  No one else knew she was here. It had to be Brandon, checking up on her.

  She hoped.

  Carla stared daggers at the phone, as if her will alone would silence it. A second ring, and a third. Her nerves jangled. She limped to the bed stand and snatched up the receiver just to stop the noise. Slowly she brought it to her ear, then stilled.

  She heard voices in the background. Felt a presence holding the phone, waiting for her to talk.

  Seconds ticked by. Carla closed her eyes. It was Thornby.

  “Carla?”

  A voice she recognized. Not Thornby.

  Carla bent over, feeling weak, then sat down hard on the bed. “Brandon.”

  “Yeah. You okay? Didn’t think you were going to answer for a minute.”

  “I’m . . . fine.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Not good.” Carla mouthed rote answers, her mind still trying to wrap itself around her relief.

  “Oh, sorry. Listen up, though, I gotta tell you something. I had a little visit from your friend Thornby.” He told Carla about the gun, the fight, Thornby running off.

  Carla brought a hand to her face, thoughts whirling. If she hadn’t fled that car dealership, she could have been caught. Brandon could have been killed. Any friend who helps you is dead. All the more reason now why she couldn’t call anyone. Why she was truly, completely on her own . . .

  “Brandon” — her throat cramped — “I’m so sorry. I never should have gone to you for help. I knew better; I just . . . had nowhere else to go.”

  “Hey, don’t be worrying about that. I’m not calling to make you feel bad. I just want you to know this guy’s still after you. Don’t think he’ll come back here, though. My manager’s called the police, and they’re on their way over here. I’m going to give a full report and a description of the guy. The cops’ll be looking for him. Plus we need the report for our insurance claim on the dented car.”

  Carla’s fingers tightened on the phone. “Please don’t tell the police about me!”

  “Why? You’re obviously in trouble, and you need help. Plus, how am I going to explain what happened? I have to tell my manager where your car came from.”

  She rubbed her forehead, trying to work coherent thought into her brain. Her stomach felt so empty, her body so tired, and her ankle throbbed. She couldn’t begin to think.

  “Wait.” Carla edged back to rest against the headboard and lifted both feet up on the bed. The ankle pain eased off a little. “Okay. Tell them you took a crazy woman for a test drive if you have to. But don’t tell them where I am. I can’t trust the police, Brandon! Remember it was a state trooper who helped Thornby find me.”

  “So what am I supposed to say?”

  “That you dropped me off on the street and have no idea where I went.”

  Brandon hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t want to lie to the police. And Shawn — that’s my manager — I sure can’t lie to him.”

  Fear edged Carla’s voice. “Listen to me — you tell them where I am, it won’t do any good. I’ll just leave. Be gone before any policeman gets here. I’ll have to do that, don’t you understand? I can’t trust the police!”

  Brandon sighed. “Yeah, okay, I hear you. There’s been a few times in my life I wondered about the police myself. I’ll tell them I let you out, and I don’t know where you went.”

  Carla’s body went limp. She sank her chin toward her chest. “Thank you.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “Look,” Brandon said, “I’m going to get this suitcase to you if it’s the last thing I do. I get off work at eight. I’ll bring it over then. So don’t leave, okay?”

  “You’re staying at work? Haven’t you had enough for one day?”

  He gave a little snort. “Thought so for a while there, but hey, I haven’t sold a car yet. Besides, I’m thinking this huge Band-Aid on my chin’s going to make people feel sorry for me. Somebody’ll buy from me for sure.”

  Carla smiled. Then checked the clock: 4:30. It would be a long time until he arrived. “You have to be careful when you come. Keep an eye out for a black Durango.”

  “Oh, I’ll be watching, all right.” Disgust tinged Brandon’s voice. “I see it, I’m leading the guy straight to the police station. I’ve had enough of him.”

  Carla’s stomach growled. “Brandon, when you come — do you think you could bring me something to eat?”

  “Sure. What do you want?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Anything. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, and I don’t want to show myself in the restaurant here.”

  “You got it.”

  Carla heard muffled words in the background. Brandon’s voice dimmed, as if he’d turned his mouth from the phone. “Okay, be right there.” He came back, louder. “I gotta go, the cops are here.”

  Apprehension spiraled through Carla. “Remember what you promised.”

  “Hey, listen, no worries. You think I want anything happening to you? I got a bit invested now, know what I mean?”

  “
Yeah, guess so. Thanks. Call me when you’re on your way over, okay?”

  “All right.”

  They clicked off the call, Carla staring at the receiver in her hand. Not sixty seconds passed before reality hit. She couldn’t stay here now. She dared not trust anyone, including Brandon. His manager, the police, coworkers — someone was liable to pull from him the whole story. And who knew how the information could spread from there?

  Tears bit her eyes. She was so very tired. But she had to rouse herself, call a cab, go to a car rental agency — and drive off again. To some unknown destination, full of unknown people and an unknown life.

  The receiver began to beep. She leaned over and smashed it down, wishing it were her fist in Bryson Hanley’s face. This was never, ever going to end. Not unless she told everything and exposed him. And that, for her own sake, and the sake of Han-ley’s children, and for Scott, she would not do.

  Carla blinked back the tears. No time to cry now. She had more important things to do. Like save herself.

  SIXTY-ONE

  I am so huge. I look like a barn. I feel like a barn. I have to go to the bathroom all the time.

  Worst of all, I keep having these early contractions, called Brax-ton Hicks. Dr. Hughes says they’re not real contractions and the baby’s not really ready to come yet. But they sure feel real. They hurt.

  I had a doctor’s appointment today. Dr. Hughes says everything looks good. I had an ultrasound again — and the results are the same as last time, no question. It’s a girl. I knew it! Scott and I are getting excited! I can’t wait to finally hold Rebecca. Touch those tiny hands and fingernails. See the color of her eyes and hair.

  Scott and I have decided I’ll live with Mom for another year. Somehow I’ll try to finish my senior year while taking care of a baby. There are agencies to help me. Then after we graduate, we’ll get married.