by D. M. Barr
Maybe the smarter call to make would be to her mother, so she could stop her worrying. After all, what were the chances that the Invisible Woman was still watching her, monitoring her calls or those of her loved ones and friends? The damage was already done. Her photo was out, her reputation annihilated. She dialed the familiar number. Her mother picked up on the second ring.
“Nana, it’s me, Camarin.”
“Gråsias adios! Camarita, I was so worried. Are you all right? Are you såfo’?”
“Yes, Nana, I am fine. I’m hidden away where no one can find me until the real killer is found.”
“I need to see you, Camarita. You can come to me, or I will come to you. I won’t sleep tonight until I see you, until I know that someone didn’t force you to say you’re okay just to stop me from looking for you.”
She willed herself to be patient, to put herself in her mother’s shoes. She could understand how scary it could be with someone you love missing, disgraced on national television, accused of terrible things. If she could spend an hour with Ana, put her mind at ease, make her promise not to tell anyone that she’d seen her, at least that would be one less thing to worry about.
“Camarita, are you still there?”
“Yes, Nana. Where are you? I will come by as long as you promise on grandmother’s grave that you will not tell anyone that you’ve spoken to me or that I’m coming. My life and my freedom could hang in the balance. Do you swear, Nana?”
“Camarita, you know I would never do anything that would hurt you or put you in peril. You have my word. I am at the Laidlaw Hotel, Room 1402. When do you think you’ll be here?”
She glanced at the clock across the room. It was 11:03. “I’ll be there later today. Just for a brief time, to show you I am okay. By the way, Nana, I heard you were at my office. Do not go back there. Stay away from those men. It could be very dangerous for us both.”
“Yes, Camarita, of course, whatever you say. I will see you later this afternoon. I love you, my bonita.”
Chapter 40
Fletcher and Wynan knocked on Ana’s door about an hour after she’d phoned them. Fletcher had originally planned on coming alone, no need to involve Wynan in all of this. Hans couldn’t possibly understand what Camarin meant to him, how important it was for him to deal with her alone, in private. But his friend caught him trying to sneak out, confronted him, made him admit to his destination.
“We started this together, and we’re finishing this together,” Wynan proclaimed and took the lead in hailing down a cab.
“Any plan on how you’re going to handle this, Superman?” Wynan asked after they’d given the driver the address. “You going to swoop in, grab her, and fly off, or just reason with her, like the cool-headed Clark Kent you are?”
Fletcher frowned. “I think you’d be Clark Kent, and I’d be tough but fair-minded editor-in-chief Perry White. If you’re going to throw out sarcastic analogies, at least be accurate, okay?”
“You always were a stickler over details.”
He patted his friend on the back. “Years of training, my friend. To answer the question, I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to do. Play it by ear, I guess. I’m hoping that between her mother and I reasoning with her, we can convince her that the safest, most prudent thing to do is come out of hiding, get a lawyer, face these charges head-on. They have nothing but a picture, from what I can tell. No weapon, no evidence. Pictures can be photoshopped, after all.”
“Well, according to your own admission, you were there. What did you see?”
“I saw a girl in pain go up on stage and rip her heart out, all so Terry Mangel could sell a few extra trinkets. You know, the guy’s premise is worthy, but his methods are a joke. If his concern was truly body acceptance for all, he wouldn’t ask the oppressed to pay hundreds of dollars to feel good about themselves. He’s out there, condemning weight-loss clinics, fashion magazines, and the rest of the self-improvement industry for bilking millions from those who don’t fit into an unrealistic vision of what’s acceptable. But Mangel, with his high-priced revival tickets, retreats, books, DVDs—it’s just the flip side of the same coin.”
Wynan shrugged. “You know firsthand that people will pay their last dime for just one glimmer of hope. It’s so terribly sad. All anyone in this world wants is love, acceptance, and based on the number of resumes I keep getting, a chance to be published, have their ideas heard. And when they finally get those things, they discover the sad truth—people are fickle, their opinions capricious. If you’re waiting for their approval, you’ve got a long wait. Acceptance has to come from within.”
“And preferably without breaking the bank.” Fletcher leaned forward. “Driver, it’s over there on the right.”
The cab pulled up in front of the functional facade, indistinguishable from every other convention hotel in Manhattan had it not been for the large, blinking neon sign screaming The Laidlaw Hotel, and then, in smaller letters underneath, Home to Benji’s Dueling Piano Bar. They bypassed the throngs in the lobby and headed right to the elevators and the fourteenth floor.
The higher room numbers were closest to the elevator, so they needed to trek down a long corridor before arriving at Room 1402. Fletcher gave the door three loud raps. No response. He tried again, this time half-knocking and half-pounding. Then he waited, shifting his weight from leg to leg.
“Easy there, big fellow. I’m sure she heard you the first time.” Wynan put a hand on Fletcher’s shoulder.
“You’re my best friend, but right now, please shut up. I’m nervous, and I just want to get this over with.”
“I’ll be there in just a minute,” a voice from inside the room called out.
Fletcher looked back at his companion, chin lifted, vindicated. “See? It helped.”
The door slowly opened, just enough for Ana’s face to show. She wore an uneasy, almost frightened expression.
“No need to worry, Mrs. Torres. It’s just Hans and I.”
She looked Fletcher in the eye, as if trying to signal. Her lips mouthed the words go away.
“I don’t underst—”
The door opened farther, wide enough for him to see the gun pointing at her head.
“Gentlemen, we’ve been waiting for you. Please come in. Without any sudden moves or heroic efforts, please. Picking brain fragments out of hotel carpets can take forever.”
* * * *
“That’s crazy. Have you thought this all the way through?” DeAndre asked after Camarin called and revealed her plans for the afternoon.
“Yes, Mom.”
“I’m not your mom. I’m your roommate. And right now, I’m your worried-out-of-his-mind roommate. You went to all this trouble to go into hiding, and now you’re going to traipse right back to where we started?”
“Traipse?”
“Yeah, thanks to Drift, I’m learning new, big words. It’s what we future magazine publishers do in our spare time when our friends aren’t mocking our vocabulary or ruining our carefully laid-out plans.”
“Ah, well, if it sets your psyche at ease any, I promise not to traipse. I’m more of a skedaddler anyway.”
“For someone who’s about to risk her life, you’re sounding awfully cavalier about all of this.”
“I don’t think it’s as big of a deal as you’re making out. First, the Invisible Woman’s already published the pictures. I’m toast, and she’s off laughing her head off somewhere. I’m no longer a person of interest.”
“Until she thinks you might open your mouth and tell them about The Collective’s recruiting Facebook post, the string of murders, the death threat against Mangel, all those trivial things that you might mention once you’re in custody. Which, I must repeat, is something you’re safe from now, as long as you stay hidden.”
She looked over at Harvey, who had pulled her newly washed burqa from the dryer and was holding it out for her to admire. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.
“I understand. I appreciate your concer
n. But right now, my mother is waiting in Room 1402 to see for herself that I’m safe, so she doesn’t have a heart attack. She’s already gone to Fletcher and Wynan, and they know she’s in town. If my suspicions are right and Lyle is the Invisible Woman, my mother’s not safe as long as he can get at her, use her to get to me.”
“Unless that’s what they’re already doing. Ever think of that? Maybe you’re walking into one enormous trap.”
“I very much doubt that’s the case. They’d have no way of knowing I’d find out she was in town, or that I’d try to contact her.”
“Why not? Your mom came to Trend, where Fletcher and Rachel work. Fletcher has seen her and me together. He knows we’re a couple. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out word could get back to you.”
She considered his argument.
“Maybe you’re right, Dee. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll figure out some other way to get a message to her, maybe through Malcolm. Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay here and keep digging.”
“That’s my girl. Maybe your mom will come down to Benji’s tonight and I’ll get to speak to her myself.”
“Okay, that would be great. Just be careful. If I’m still a target, you’re still one too.”
“Don’t I know it. Tweedledee and Tweedledum are in the next room, no doubt still fending off Annalise’s advances.”
She laughed. “Well, then good luck all around. Bye for now.”
She hung up the phone and looked up at Harvey, who was pulling out a hanger from the hall closet.
“Wait, what are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m putting this away. I thought I heard you say you’re not going after all.”
She strode over and gently took the garment from Harvey’s hand.
“Oh, I’m going all right. My mom needs to get back to LA, where she’ll be safe, and the only way that’s going to happen is if she gets it through her stubborn Chamorro skull that I’m able to fend for myself.”
The cab ride downtown was far more pleasant than the ride up had been four days earlier. Having only one layer of clothing on underneath the burqa helped, as did the lack of the nauseatingly sweet scent of molasses. Camarin patted the fanny pack that Malcolm had run out and purchased for her at the local sporting goods store. She had money, her burner phone, everything she needed to buy her mother an early dinner via room service and then call her an Uber to take her to JFK.
DeAndre was too overprotective. She was going to be just fine.
Chapter 41
Camarin stepped inside the Laidlaw and smack into the suspicious stares of guests in the lobby. Typical New Yorkers wouldn’t have given her burqa a second look, but unenlightened tourists from God knows what hick town? Especially with so many suicide bombings in the news of late? She hadn’t considered that without the Muslims for Peace convention in town, she stood out like a sore thumb, especially unescorted by a man. She made a beeline for the elevator.
She pushed the button for the fourteenth floor, noting with shock that her hands were trembling. Pussy. Annoyed at her own weakness, she pressed her arms tight against her body for the remainder of the ride. Then she sought out Room 1402. Figures she’d make me walk as far down the hall as possible.
As she stood in front of her mother’s hotel room, she took a deep breath, willing God to grant her the strength to deal with the crazed lunatic inside. She’d already played out the scenario in her head. First her mother would criticize her outfit, asking if the burqa was to hide a few extra pounds instead of allowing her to walk the streets of New York incognito. Then the meat—is that how she intended to keep her hair, so long and unruly? Was that a pimple on her chin? Was she really living up to her full potential, working as a bartender and a junior reporter? Surely, she could do better. And then, of course, the pièce de résistance: Camarita, you’re such a smart girl. How could you have gotten yourself all tied up in this Mangel horror show? Like it was entirely her fault. Maybe Monaeka had been the smart one, checking out early. Not having to deal with all this garbage.
She knocked at the door and heard a female voice yell out, “Come in. It’s open.”
That’s odd, she thought. Her mother was as cautious as they come. She pressed the handle, and sure enough, the door was unlocked. She ventured inside.
“Nana, what are you thinking leaving the door unbolted? Maybe I’m not the only one who should—”
She stopped dead in her tracks. Directly in front of her on the bed sat Fletcher, Wynan, and her mother, gagged, with wrists and ankles bound, their eyes imploring her to save herself. Two heavyset women stood between her and the captives, one positioned at an angle, pointing a gun with a silencer at the three captives. Camarin recognized her as Maria Whalen, one of the speakers from the revival and Mangel fiancée number one, the computer programmer who’d been fired from the cosmetics firm. Guess someone else was handling Mom’s dialysis today. The other woman was Grace, the woman who’d been working the customer service booth at the revival. She looked to be unarmed and, judging by her confused expression, was apparently out of her element.
Cam felt herself paralyzed, starting to once again float outside of her body, unprepared, unarmed, and unable to deal with the fact that everyone she loved was about to die, and she could do nothing to help.
“So glad you could join us, Camarin.” Terry Mangel made his grand entrance, emerging from behind the bathroom door. “Grace, help Ms. Torres off with her cloak so we can see her hands.”
Grace, looking almost apologetic, pulled the burqa off Cam’s body, and threw it in the corner. Camarin remained unable to move or resist.
“Search her. Make sure she isn’t armed.”
She patted Camarin down, checked her fanny pack, and then nodded to Mangel. “She’s clean.”
Satisfied, Mangel waved Grace to return to her original position beside Maria.
A rush of outrage flooded over Camarin, feeling violated by Grace’s inspection but unable to swat her off. Just as she couldn’t fend off her aunt tying her to the bed, or the priest wresting the demon of gluttony from her soul.
Camarin shifted her glance to her mother and recalled the day after the exorcism, when her mother had learned of the ceremony and had assured her that such an atrocity would never happen again. “In times of great need, the Taotaomo’na will protect you,” she said, trying to assuage her daughter’s fears. “They are the collective spirits of our Chamorro ancestors, our guiding spirits. When you are in grave danger, they will always be there for you. This is all you have to say…”
Mananiti, if you have ever truly loved your family, then help us right now! Camarin’s silent war cry reverberated in her head, the power of the words bringing the feeling back to her arms and legs.
“You’re really a very difficult lady to pin down, even with my top-notch hacking and tracking team here,” said Mangel, holding his hand out as if encouraging her to applaud his team of criminals. “They’ve been following you since the moment you ran out of my trailer. Nice staging, eh? Giving you an excuse to fight me off? And grabbing that letter opener was an unexpected bonus. Fingerprints galore, they made the photos even more incriminating. Thank you for that. It’s amazing what you can do with Photoshop, a little corn syrup, and some red dye. Even fooled Ms. Lowery. She still thinks I’m recovering in some secluded hospital. Only way to make the press conferences sound convincing, you know.”
Camarin knew she should be angry or terrified, but she stood solidly in place, blessedly overtaken by a calm she attributed to her ancestors looking down over her, protecting her from harm.
“You’re the Invisible Woman?” she said, half-sneeringly at Mangel. “You faked that Facebook post, the death threat, just to throw me off?”
“I prefer to think of every forgotten female as an Invisible Woman,” he said smugly. “Maria here, Grace, all my followers. They each know what it’s like to be forgotten, overlooked. That’s why they do as I direct them. They perform little tasks for me, helping me rid the wo
rld of those who might hold a bias against them. Isn’t that right, girls?”
He walked over and ran his hand down each woman’s hair, lovingly, as if they were a pair of prized Irish setters.
“More like they help you wipe out the competition, isn’t that right?” she asked brazenly. If she was going to die, she might as well do it with a bang.
And if Fletcher wasn’t the killer, her research had given her a new theory about why Mangel was behind it all. Something that might change his supporters’ minds about cooperating in his murderous schemes.
“You don’t care less about body shaming or fat bullying, do you? Those people you killed, they just stood between you and a few more dollars of profit. And you figured if you could blackmail me into killing on your behalf, you’d shut me up for good. Admit it.”
A funny look came over Maria’s face. Maybe I’m getting my message across. One ass squeeze from Mangel later, she returned to her smiling, gun-wielding self.
“Ms. Torres, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ve never killed anyone. My hands are clean. If my two followers here have chosen to rid the world of their oppressors, and I just provided them the names, the means, and the opportunity, then so be it. My message has consistently been one of love and acceptance.”
It was as if he were back on stage, preaching. She wasn’t sure if he was lost without his limelight or was simply reminding his henchwomen of why they were there. Perhaps he was merely trying to clear his own conscience of responsibility.
Regardless, she was amazed by her own clear head and focus. Not one shake of her knees, not one bead of sweat on her face. She knew these ladies’ mindsets, their deepest fears. Being laughed at. Being used. And then discarded. And why wouldn’t she know? She and her sister had known that dread their entire lives. She gave her compadres on the bed a nod and pressed on.
“Tell it to the sheep who follow you around the country, Terry, but I’m not buying into that horseshit. All you are is a failed ad executive who realized that you could reach your overweight consumers more effectively by offering them hope and an occasional engagement ring than by selling them low-carb frozen dinners and diet pills. Your message of ‘love your oppressors’ is a sham. What happened? Did the layoffs and pay cuts at Lehming Brothers start eating away at your profits? Did you figure that by murdering off the competition you’d inspire some copycat killings? Put more focus on fat oppression, more reason to rebel? And maybe Lehming Brothers would start paying better again? Especially with fewer subsidiaries left to support? Say what you may, but I know the truth, and deep down, I think these ladies here know it too. You don’t care about the size of anything except your wallet.”