by Brenda Novak
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Where?” Max asked.
Emma hid her hair under Preston’s hat and donned his sunglasses. “We’re getting out of here, one way or another.”
PRESTON SLUNG his arm over the back of the booth. The restaurant in the Hotel Nevada wasn’t busy, but two old cowboys sat against the far wall, beneath an elk head that stared sightlessly down on them, and a few people lingered beyond the restaurant in the open lobby, playing slot machines. The bright lights typical of a casino glittered and flashed, and occasionally the sound of bells, whistles and coins falling rang above the hum of voices and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen across from him. But the midday activity was hardly enough to keep Preston’s mind occupied. That incident at the pool had rattled him too badly. He’d left the Starlight nearly two hours ago, yet he felt sick every time he thought of Max’s pale face.
Which was why he wasn’t going to think about it anymore, he decided.
Pulling a twenty from his wallet, he tossed it into the small plastic tray the waitress had left with his check, then glanced at his watch. Mel, over at the auto repair shop, had told him the van would be ready at four. He had another thirty minutes to wait. Then he’d be on his way with his gun and no one to worry about except himself, sailing down the highway at seventy-five miles per hour.
He smiled. God bless Nevada and its generous speed limits. The added freedom he felt in this lonely state was one of the reasons he liked it. No one tried too hard to legislate the daily details of life. Live and let live seemed to be the motto here. It was Preston’s motto, too. And that was exactly why he felt perfectly justified in leaving Emma and Max behind. He refused to set himself up again; he’d rather play it safe than take the kind of risk that might lead him down the same dark path his life had taken two years ago. The new Preston preferred having nothing to lose.
His cell phone rang. After the trouble he’d had reaching Emma, he was surprised it worked. But who was he to question the gods of cellular service?
Eager to distract himself in any way possible, he grabbed it from the table. Inactivity only invited his conscience to continue pestering him with the same resolve-weakening questions he’d been battling for the past hour. What’s going to happen to Max and Emma now? What if Manuel catches up with them? Could one more day in their company cost me that much?
“Yes!” he snapped.
“What?” a scratchy voice responded, and Preston realized he’d already punched the Talk button.
“I mean, hello.”
“I can see I’ve caught you in a good mood.”
It was Gordon Latham, the private investigator he’d hired to find Vince and probably the only person in the world Preston called a friend these days. Preston could tolerate him because Gordon had no connection to the other stockbrokers from the firm where he’d worked, the guys on the block where he’d lived, the investors he’d wined and dined or the Little League dads with whom he’d coached. Gordon hadn’t been part of his former life. Back then, Preston hadn’t needed a P.I. Like almost everyone he knew, he’d stupidly believed that nothing truly devastating could ever happen to him.
Until it did.
“No worse than usual,” Preston said, and sat up taller. The last time Gordon had called, he’d said that a Dr. Vincent Wendell had opened a medical practice in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. It had taken Preston only a few calls to determine that this Dr. Vincent Wendell was indeed the man he’d known as Vince, the neighbor who’d lived down the street from him two years ago. Vince had finally shown up again after disappearing from Fallon over a year ago.
“Where are you?” Gordon asked.
“Nevada.”
“What? I thought you’d be on a plane to Iowa the second we hung up two days ago.”
Preston couldn’t fly, not with a gun. And, considering what he planned to do, it made little sense to go to Iowa without it. “I don’t fly,” he said, choosing to let Gordon believe he had an aversion to leaving the ground. He used to fly all the time, but that was when he had a home and a family and didn’t live out of a van and travel with a loaded weapon.
“So are you on your way there?” Gordon asked.
“I am. It should only take a couple more days.”
“Wendell’s finally set up his practice again. He’s probably not going anywhere real soon.”
“Not unless someone tips him off that I’m coming.”
“Who would do that?”
“Exactly,” Preston said. He figured Vince felt safe now and had decided to put down some roots—which was why he believed it was wiser to go there prepared. As much as he craved getting hold of the man he held responsible for Dallas’s death, he didn’t want to blow what could be his only chance at a confession.
“By the way, you’re one hell of…sly dog…know that?” Gordon said.
Gordon’s voice had started cutting in and out, but Preston managed to decipher his words. “How so?”
“…you kidding? I made fifty-thou…stock tip you gave me. Thanks, man.”
Preston stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “I guess I should’ve taken my own advice.”
“You didn’t?”
“I bought into something a little more volatile. The gamble didn’t pay off.”
“How much…you lose?”
Preston did a quick calculation in his head. “Seventy, give or take a few thousand.”
“Seventy thousand dollars?”
That came through loud and clear. “Could’ve been worse. Fortunately, I got conservative at the last minute.” The waitress came to collect his money, and he gave her a polite smile.
She smiled back, a little more meaningfully than he’d expected, and he shifted his gaze away so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.
“You don’t care?” Gordon said, their phone connection improving. “You’re not freaking out about losing that much money?”
“As long as I have enough to get by, it’s all numbers on a spreadsheet to me.”
“With…We’re…”
Preston held the phone closer to his ear. “What?”
“I said with a dollar sign attached! We’re not playing with fake money here, pal. I’d have a heart attack if I ever lost that much. And if the heart attack didn’t kill me, Pamela would.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a wife to worry about anymore, remember?” Preston said.
Gordon fell silent. For a second, Preston was afraid he’d put them both in an awkward position by apologizing for the blunder. But he should’ve known better. Gordon wasn’t that stupid.
“I have something new for you,” he said, simply changing the subject.
Preston wiped the condensation from his water glass. “What’s that?”
“Wendell and his wife…divorcing.”
“You say they’re divorcing?”
“Right. Your old pal is losing his wife.”
It couldn’t be. Joanie had always thought Vince walked on water. After Dallas’s funeral, when Preston had confronted them with his suspicions, she’d been vehement in her defense of Vince. How can you say such things? You son of a bitch! I thought you were our friend.
The two couples had been friends. Close friends. At least until Preston had voiced the terrible questions and doubts that had been consuming him, along with his grief. At that point, Vince and Joanie began playing the martyr. After everything we’ve been to each other, how can you turn on us?
Easily. He could do it because no friend meant more to him than his son, and he needed answers.
But they’d only used Preston’s accusations to make him look irrational. “It’s the grief,” they muttered to anyone who’d listen. For a while, Preston wondered if he was irrational, if he just wanted someone to blame for his loss. While he was doubting himself and fighting to save his own marriage, the Wendells had sold their house and moved away—with no forwarding address. Gordon had eventually found them in Fallon, but by the time Preston had arrived, they were al
ready gone.
“I’m not sure they’ll go through with it, of course,” Gordon was saying. “But they filed a month ago.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Hey, don’t you watch TV? I’m a P.I. I can dig up anything, remember?”
Preston chuckled, but he was so busy trying to work out what Joanie’s defection might mean that he didn’t see the tall, dark-haired man who’d entered the restaurant until that man was standing in front of him.
“Excuse me, amigo. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a quick question, if you don’t mind.”
Surprised by the interruption, Preston glanced up, and the man immediately shoved a photograph under his nose.
“Have you, by chance, seen my wife? Or my son?”
Preston stared dumbly at an image of Max grinning for the camera, and a much more sedate-looking Emma. Max’s smile appeared to be authentic, but Preston could easily guess that the slight curve of Emma’s lips was for the camera alone.
When he lifted his eyes to the clean-shaven man who had to be Manuel, he fought the urge to let his hands curl into fists. Manuel had called her his wife, but according to Emma they’d never married.
“I’ve got to go,” he told Gordon. “Thanks for the info. Call me if you find anything else.”
Arranging his expression into one of concern, Preston hung up and accepted the picture Manuel held out to him. It was slightly bent, as though it had been carried in a wallet of some sort, but it certainly wasn’t torn and shabby. Like Manuel’s blue fitted shirt and black slacks, there wasn’t a crease in it.
Preston noted the expensive sunglasses hooked into the opening of Manuel’s shirt, the thick gold medallion around his neck and the mammoth diamond ring that glittered on his little finger, and decided he definitely had an uptown flair. Manuel had even splashed on cologne—more than anybody should have the right to wear. Preston could barely stand it.
Evidently, Max’s dad took “dressing to impress” to a whole new level.
“She’s really beautiful,” he said, just to hear Manuel’s response.
Manuel’s lips thinned. “Have you seen her?”
Preston tilted the picture to the side to get a better look. “Is she in some sort of danger?” From you, perhaps?
So far their exchange had lasted mere seconds, but Preston could already feel Manuel’s dislike. It came off him in waves and made Preston wonder if his own feelings were equally transparent.
“Possibly.”
“I really wish I could help you, but…” Preston shook his head. “I haven’t seen them. Do you have a card or something? Maybe I could call you if I do.”
Manuel slipped the picture of Emma and Max into his breast pocket and withdrew a card that read “Manuel Rodriguez.” Only a cell phone and pager number were listed beneath the name. No profession. No address.
“If you see her, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”
“You bet. We can’t leave such a pretty lady at risk now, can we?”
When Manuel froze and turned back, Preston knew he hadn’t masked the flippant tone of his voice quite as well as he’d intended to.
“Do you live here in Ely, señor?” Manuel asked.
They’d gone from amigo to señor. Not a good sign. Preston saw no reason to single himself out any more than he already had. He’d been foolish to provoke Manuel. It wasn’t going to help matters. “Yeah, I grew up here. Why?”
There was that icy smile again. “You don’t look like a cowboy.”
“Next time I’ll remember to wear my spurs.”
Straight white teeth flashed as Manuel laughed. “Be careful. A cowboy lives a dangerous life,” he said softly. “You wouldn’t want to be caught unawares.”
Manuel held his head at a haughty angle as he stalked into the dimly lit lobby, where Preston could see him showing everyone the same picture and, no doubt, asking the same question: Have you seen my wife?
The tension inside Preston wound tighter as he watched. How many people would Manuel have to approach before someone said, “I think I saw her over by the Starlight Motel.” Even if no one gave her away, Emma had a kid and no car. A diabetic kid. She didn’t stand a chance against the arrogant son of a bitch who was chasing her. If she couldn’t get a ride out of town Manuel would probably find her before nightfall.
The memory of Emma arching her neck as he kissed her soft skin flashed through Preston’s mind. She’d closed her eyes and held her breath at his touch, as though she’d never felt anything so gentle.
The thought of what she might have endured before caused Preston to crush Manuel’s card in his hand.
“Here’s your change,” the waitress said.
His mind on Emma and Max, Preston waved her off. “Keep it.”
She pocketed the money, but paused with a hand on her hip instead of moving away. When he looked up, she grinned. “At least take your receipt.”
He accepted the slip of paper. He was about to toss it onto the table when she touched his hand and made a point of turning the receipt over so he could see the telephone number she’d written on the back. “Call me sometime.”
As he slid out of the booth, he nearly told her he was just passing through. Even if he’d been planning to stay, he would’ve offered some excuse. He knew how to deflect interest; he’d become a master at isolation. But Manuel’s dogged persistence in the lobby distracted him, grated on his nerves.
Forget Emma. Get out of here. You have enough to worry about. Joanie’s divorcing Vince. This could be the break you’ve been waiting for.
Preston watched Manuel approach an old woman. Smiling broadly, he acted the perfect Latin gentleman. And she was obviously impressed. The old lady beamed as though she’d trade her dentures to be able to help him.
“Shit,” Preston muttered. To hell with moving on alone. He’d catch up with Joanie soon, but first he had to get Emma out of Ely, because he wasn’t about to let Manuel Rodriguez have what he wanted. Not today.
“Excuse me?” the waitress said.
“Sorry, I was thinking about something else,” he said. “I’d love to take you out sometime. But is there any chance you might be willing to do me a small favor first?”
The hesitancy in her eyes said she was leery of promising too much. “Um, sure, I guess. What is it?”
“See that man out there?”
“The one who was talking to you earlier?”
“That’s him. Has he approached you yet?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s looking for my sister and her son. But he’s abusive. He’s beaten her badly, and I’ve promised to help her get away from him.”
Her eyes went round. “He beat her?”
“You should’ve seen it.” Preston let the disgust he felt every time he thought of Emma’s burn show on his face.
“That’s terrible!”
He nodded. “Do you think you could walk past him? When he stops you to ask about the woman and the boy in the photograph, tell him you saw them earlier, that they were eating in here with—” he searched for a lie plausible enough to buy some time “—a heavyset trucker who mentioned he was on his way to Vegas.”
“A heavyset trucker going to Vegas. Got it.” She smiled freely again now that she knew she didn’t have to do anything too difficult. “So you’ll call me?”
“This weekend if I can. But in case I have a conflict, here’s a little something for your trouble.”
“You don’t have to tip me for such a simple favor.”
“You deserve it.”
She slipped the twenty he handed her into her apron. “Okay, but don’t let a conflict stand in the way,” she said with a pout.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, and she headed toward the hotel’s front desk.
Just as Preston had expected, Manuel spotted her immediately. When he crossed to speak with her, Preston slipped around them and hurried outside.
Parked right out front was a black Hummer. Manuel’s car. It had to be
. The license plate read “Rodriquez-l,” which confirmed it. The bastard had every advantage.
As much as he wanted to avoid Max and Emma’s company, Preston knew he couldn’t walk out on them now. He already had more than enough regrets.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EMMA HAD purposely left her cell phone behind in San Diego. If she didn’t, she knew Manuel would call her incessantly. She even feared he might be able to trace her if she used it. She’d taken the barest of necessities, exactly what she needed for her plan to work. Only her plan had fallen apart the first day, and now she found herself trying to get by with almost nothing.
Wearing her swimsuit for underwear and holding all of Max’s and her possessions in one hand, she stood at a payphone several blocks from the Starlight Motel. Max played nearby. With the highway heading out of town only a few feet away, and nothing but flat land and low shrubs all around, she felt like a target. She could hardly believe Manuel hadn’t already pulled up and ordered her and Max to get in the car.
A flash of movement told her Max was too close to the road. “Hey, get back,” she called, leaning out of the phone booth to make sure he obeyed. When he started digging in the flower beds again, something she was sure the owner of the gas station wouldn’t be too thrilled to see, she put the phone back to her ear. At least digging in the flower beds kept him low to the ground and out of the street.
“I think you must have the wrong number,” a voice said on the other end of the line.
The person she’d called had picked up. “I’m sorry. I was talking to my son.”
“Oh.”
“I’m contacting you about the car you have for sale in the paper.”
“I’m afraid that’s already been sold. Larry Beecham wanted it for his teenage son.”
The woman gave Larry Beecham’s name as though she expected Emma to know him. This was a small town. Too small. And Emma was growing desperate. If she couldn’t get a car, she’d have to spend another night here, or hitchhike.
She wondered if maybe she could buy a couple of sleeping bags and camp out in the wilderness. She knew she’d feel safer beneath the stars in some remote location than she would if she got another motel room in town. But with her luck, it’d rain. Or she’d encounter a rattlesnake.