One Plus One (The Millionth Trilogy Book 3)

by Tony Faggioli

  They were at a rest stop. Tamara looked inside the car to see if anyone else was there with them. There was no one, which meant earlier he’d just been talking to himself, but how was that possible? She was sure she’d heard a second voice and this realization caused a crease of goosebumps to climb her arms, despite the desert sun.

  “I gotta pee,” she said, feeling embarrassed.

  “Make it count, ’cause we got a long haul from here.”

  She nodded and began walking stiffly. When he tried to follow her into the bathroom she told him she had to go number two, not number one. He was wearing a faded Anaheim Angels cap, which he pulled down hard across his forehead. Looking at her suspiciously, he nodded and said, “Fine. Don’t get slick, or I may bust up that pretty face of yours some more.”

  It wasn’t like there was anywhere to go. The rest stop bathrooms were enclosed in a squat building made of thick bricks painted an ugly tannish-brown that matched the surrounding terrain. For both the men’s and ladies’ rooms there was only one way in, and one way out. He seemed to surmise this because as she walked into the restroom he took up a nonchalant pose, his shoulder propped against a metal post with an “Area Safety” sign on it, one foot over the other, and began whistling softly.

  When she was finished she went to the sink, washed her hands and then scooped big handfuls of water over her face and through her hair, the coolness both refreshing and exhilarating. She was frightened by the red hue of the water as she washed all the blood from her facial wounds, using her fingernails to scrape away the dried up bits, before the water went pink and then clear. She felt a cut on her cheek and one over her eye; they were raw, but closed.

  Sighing, she took a few deep breaths and thought about what she’d seen on the way in.

  Besides the rest stop there was nothing else around them but fields of rocky desert and near-dead foliage. No other cars were here, and she could hear no coming or passing traffic. She had hoped the rest stop would be near a camping ground of some kind, but she hadn’t seen any RVs or campers either, nor the smoke from any campfires, which made sense since it was the middle of day.

  There was a payphone mounted against a boundary wall outside, but it looked shaky at best. She realized she had no change in her pocket and then remembered that 911 was a free call, even from a payphone. But there was no guarantee the phone worked at all. Down the road, in one direction or the other, there was bound to be a call box of some kind, but who knew how many miles away.

  She wondered if he had a cell phone and then figured he had to. Who didn’t, these days?

  And that brought her back, full circle, to him.

  It was going to come down to him, sooner or later. The question was: was that time now?

  To use his cell phone or the payphone, or to get to a call box, either on foot or in his car… all of these scenarios required one thing: overpowering him.

  As if sensing that she was thinking of him, he suddenly shouted from outside. “Hey. What’s taking so long?”

  “Almost done. Just had to clean up a bit,” she shouted back as she leaned over the sink and looked into the scratched piece of sheet metal that served as the bathroom’s mirror.

  The woman looking back at her was a mess. Her face was gaunt, with hardly any color, and her hair was matted flat in sections from sweating so much in the trunk. Her eyes were sunken, with bags beneath them that were discolored and swollen with fatigue. Her left eye was still black from when he’d punched her and her upper lip was swollen badly.

  Bastard messed me up good, she thought. But it isn’t over yet. Not yet.

  She ran her tongue over her teeth, feeling the blood that had dried between them, and quelled her emotions again. That was the last thing she needed now; if she let them, her emotions would only give birth to fear, and she knew, absolutely knew, that fear would be what got her killed, because she could tell that this sick pervert fed off it.

  If that’s what he needed then she had to find a way to marshal her inner-self to only give it to him in metered doses, to string his sorry ass out as long as she could, until she found a way to escape, or help came. Surely, by now, someone had discovered what had happened at the house. Janie would’ve called for help, or gone to the neighbors for it. The police would be involved and then…

  Then what? How in the world would they ever know whether he’d gone south to Baja, north to Alaska or wherever?

  How would they even know what his car looked like?

  She cursed herself for not putting in the security cameras that were offered when they’d had the alarm system installed a few years back. They’d at least have given the police the make and model to go off. But no, for some reason she and Kyle had decided to save the money. A measly few hundred bucks.

  Life was funny. Back then, how could they’ve known that just a few hundred bucks might save her life someday?

  Bringing her focus back on point, she asked herself if this was the place to make her stand, and just as quickly, it was obvious to her that it was not. If there were a few cars around, or a campsite with other people who could hear her scream—anything really, besides just barren desert and a blacktop road disappearing in each direction to separate, lonely horizons—then maybe.

  She was determined to take him head on and do him some harm, but he was bigger and stronger and, more importantly, crazier than her. So if the battle went against her she needed the option of escape too. In short, she needed a place with more than the single option of fight or die. At the very least she needed fight, flight or die.

  “Quit dicking around!” he yelled, making her jump. His feet shuffled at the entrance, as if he was getting ready to come in. She saved him the trouble by walking out confidently, noticing his eyes combing over and lingering on her chest.

  A sudden sense of empowerment came over her. But of course. Until now she’d worried about whether or not he would rape her, but really, if his desires to do so opened up yet another front in her battle against him, then fine. Fear and lust. They were his two vulnerabilities. One was based in need, the other in want. She was playing a dangerous game, but really, what other game was there left to play?

  She stretched in front of him, pushing out her chest a bit, but not enough to be obvious about it. “Please…”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said, grabbing her at the elbow.

  Instinctively she wanted to resist. Instead, she complied as he walked her to the trunk. He pushed a button on his key fob and it popped open. Then he made her sit on the bumper.

  Same as last time. One step, two step, three step… four.

  He reached down and grabbed the ropes, which were just inside the trunk near the bumper. She rubbed her wrists and moaned as he brought the ropes up to tie them. “They hurt,” she said with a pout.

  Saying nothing, he grabbed her arms, forced them together and tied them tightly. But not as tightly as before. He was already starting to get sloppy. She smiled on the inside.

  This time he moved just as quickly, but a few times he lingered, just a bit. At one point she could feel him push his cheek quickly into her hair before he pushed her back into the trunk and tied her ankles.

  Matted, sweaty hair? Really? Okay then, she thought.

  As he gagged her again, she forced herself to look up into his merciless, crow-like eyes and blink pitifully, again, not heavy handedly, just sadly.

  Next time I hope you smell my hair a little longer, you son of a bitch.

  When he closed the trunk a studious look was on his face, as if she’d caught his attention.

  Because next time? I’ll make sure those ropes are pushed back a little deeper into the trunk, so that you have to reach in, past me, to get to them.

  The trunk went dark as the latch locked with a loud click.

  And then I will jump off that bumper and push you forwards just enough to slam that trunk lid… right… into the back… of your miserable… skull.

  MURILLO LOOKED PERPLEXED. “So. You’re taking them
where, again?”

  Parker was annoyed at being held up, but he understood protocol, and he had to sell this the right way. “The Travel Lodge in Eagle Rock, off Los Feliz Boulevard.”

  “And Social Services?” Murillo asked with a sigh, rubbing his left hand over his face as he looked over at Trudy and the kids, who were standing by Trudy’s rental car, a white Honda CRV, which was parked in the driveway.

  “Look. The kids are beyond spooked that this guy’s gonna come back for them, and I doubt anyone wants to force them to choose between staying in the house where their mother was beaten and abducted or going off to foster care.”

  “Procedurally, though, Parker—”

  “I talked to the cap. He cleared it because, at this point in the case, police protection is a good idea anyway. Quite frankly, the little girl in particular is starting to come unwound.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And Ms. O’Hara provided the guardianship paperwork signed by the Fasanos a few years back naming her for custody anyway,” Parker said with a shrug, remembering how Trudy had whipped out the sheet of paper from a desk drawer in the house, as if she were flashing a badge of her own at him.

  He glanced over at her and the kids. He had to hurry this up, or she was going to bail without him if she could. She hadn’t been keen on the idea of Parker tagging along in the first place, but something had told him then, as it was telling him again now, not to let the kids out of his sight, no matter what. Sure. He could tail the three of them all over the city if he had to, but it would be easier to protect them if he were with them.

  Murillo finally gave a nod of resignation. “Fine. Hit it then, guero. But please, Parker, go there and stay put. You know Social Services. If they go there to check on the kids and you’re not there then they’ll throw a big baby fit, and I just know it will somehow fall in my damn lap, okay?”

  “Deal,” Parker replied, slapping Murillo on the shoulder as he walked past him and to the car. Looking at Trudy he said, “We’re good to go.”

  “About time,” she said impatiently. “I’ll drive. Where did you say we’re going?”

  “A motel near here.”

  She looked like she was about to protest, so Parker cut her off at the pass. “Social Services will have to certify everything with the court before you can take them out of the city. Police protection is your best bet right now. If they want to play hard ball? Social Services can keep the kids until the court reviews everything, which could take days. The case worker doesn’t want to traumatize the kids any further by keeping them from you right now, but still, it’s probably best not to push it.”

  “Great.”

  Parker realized that his words had unsettled the kids even more, so he moved to fix that. “Besides. There’s still a good chance Mrs. Fasano will be found and brought home anyway. They’ve set up roadblocks now and it’s on the news. Every major station. Someone’s bound to see her out there.”

  If she’s not already dead, Parker thought before forcing the idea out of his mind.

  “Fine,” Trudy said curtly, looking at Parker and discretely rolling her eyes in the direction of the children. “It’s really best if we just get going.”

  Parker nodded.

  They loaded into the CRV and headed down the driveway, where a police cruiser was parked and partially blocking the exit. As they slowed to a stop and Parker motioned for a uniformed officer to move the car, a tall young man in tan chinos and a blue Izod shirt stepped from the curb and walked up to the car on Parker’s side. Evidently seeing Parker’s immediate concern at his approach, the man put his hands out and said, “I’m not with the press. I’m a family friend.”

  “Yeah?” Parker said flatly. He didn’t like the guy, even before he knew his name.

  “My name’s Ben,” the man said. “Ben Weisfeld.”

  The kids said nothing from the back seat, but Parker felt Trudy stiffen next to him.

  “Well, Mr. Weisfeld, I wish we could talk, but this is an active investigation, so there’s really nothing—”

  “Are the kids alright?” Mr. Weisfeld said, moving closer to the car.

  There was nothing about his body language or tone of voice that said danger, but Parker felt it nonetheless.

  “Sir. Please,” Parker said, holding his hand up for him to stop approaching.

  He complied, but only barely, and even then it was obvious that he was trying to see past Parker and into the car. The back windows being rolled up, he had no other way to answer his own question.

  “Please. I work with Tamara. I just wanted to make sure they’re okay.”

  “Do you know this guy?” Parker asked Trudy under his breath.

  “Know of him,” she replied in a hushed tone. “He works at Tamara’s company. On her project team, I think.”

  You live enough, you don’t have to be a cop or a war veteran to know when someone is telling you half-truths. Trudy had answered his question, but Parker could tell that she’d left something out.

  “The kids are fine, Mr. Weisfeld.”

  He let out a big sigh, but to Parker it seemed a little too big—as in fake. “Oh, man. That’s great to hear.”

  First the sigh was too big, now the relief was too small. The hair on Parker’s arms began to stand up. Weisfeld was only about six feet from the window. If he was up to no good he’d be a damn fool to try something here, but still, Parker did not like being vulnerable, seated in the car the way he was.

  “How about Tamara?” Weisfeld asked in that same flat tone.

  “Mr. Weisfeld, as I said, this is an active investigation. We cannot comment on anything at this time.”

  “Is she dead?”

  Parker’s patience had been reached. He looked over at Trudy and then at the police cruiser, which was now pulling out of the way. “Mr. Weisfeld. Leave. Now.”

  Peering into the back seat of the car again, he was, incredibly, about to say it again, right in front of the kids. “Is she—”

  “Mr. Weisfeld, if you have information that you think can help the investigation then tell that uniformed officer right over there,” Parker ordered, his voice firm as he pointed at a thin brown-haired La Canada deputy who was standing guard nearby and chewing a toothpick. “And he can put you in touch with one of the investigating detectives.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. We’re done here,” Parker cut him off, waving Trudy forwards.

  As they pulled down the street a pocket of silence filled the car.

  “Head down to the end of the road and make a left. That’ll take us to Angeles Crest Highway. Make another left there and then we’ll catch the 210 to the 2 south, okay?”

  Trudy nodded, and then quietly added, “I can tell you more about him later.”

  Parker nodded in return and looked out over the road ahead. Traffic was light. A trash bag had gotten wrapped up in a stack of weeds at the base of a nearby telephone pole. A bus stop bench, no doubt put there to ship in the immigrant maids and nannies that serviced the affluent homes in the area, displayed an ad for a local Realtor with a Photoshopped smile. A man in a sweat suit was jogging in place at a red light, and a mom with a double stroller was navigating the hilly curb nearby.

  Domestic bliss.

  Just a quarter mile from where a brutally violent crime occurred. Go figure.

  Parker chewed on his lower lip and squinted against the sunlight. He wanted very much not to give up on the entire human race. Lord knew he’d seen enough to be granted the right. But that would mean giving up on himself, and right now, even more importantly, giving up on Trudy O’Hara and the Fasano kids, and that just wasn’t an option.

  After a while, as they made their way down the 2 Freeway, one of the kids finally spoke up. It was the little boy, Seth.

  “We knew that man,” he said in a soft voice.

  “You did?” Parker asked.

  “Yeah,” the boy answered.

  Then it was Janie’s turn to speak. “He’s the one that gave
Mommy the lantern.”

  “Lantern?” Trudy asked.

  “Yeah,” Parker said. “It was on the counter in the kitchen.”

  “There was something bad in the lantern,” Seth said, way too calmly, like he was commenting on the weather.

  The road moved past them in a blur as a few seconds went by. Parker didn’t know what to say. Evidently neither did the only other adult in the car, as Trudy was also silent.

  Then Janie spoke again, just as calmly, but with a voice tinged with fear. “We felt it when we were running past it to get away…”

  “… until we got to the shed,” Seth finished.

  Trudy glanced at Parker, then back to the road. “Then what happened?”

  “We started saying one of the prayers Mommy taught us,” Seth said, “and I think God maybe kinda heard us.”

  “Why do you think that?” Trudy asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything, but Seth says someone spoke in his head.”

  Parker was confused. “Spoke in your head?”

  “Yeah. He spoke in my head and told me.”

  “What did he tell you, my man?” Parker said, feeling reality beginning to teeter.

  Seth said nothing, so Janie spoke up again. “He told my brother that someone would be coming to protect us.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Seth said. “A man who used to be a soldier. Is that you?”

  The 2 Freeway dipped down into a valley. Their exit was a good five miles away.

  Parker was speechless.

  CHAPTER 12

  KYLE STOOD ALONGSIDE THE Gray Man as they both looked down at the burned-out campfire that was in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that his wife had been here; he could feel her somehow, as if people left behind a bit of their essence wherever they went that forever changed a place.