Pieces of the Puzzle

by Robert Stanek

  “Like we’re going to do something at two-fifteen?” Helen had been in a sour mood ever since they left May’s.

  He took his foot off the accelerator. ““What did I do, what did I do that was so bad?”

  “You acted like you were conducting an interrogation, that’s what. Do you know how much that poor woman’s been through?”

  He looked away from the road for a moment and looked her straight in the eye. “What’s this really about?”

  “You know, don’t you,” Helen said glumly. “She told you didn’t she, told you how much of a disappointment I was.” He came to a red light and stopped. “We’re all disappointments to someone.”

  She started to reply. He cut her off, noticing the blue F-150 stopped in front of them and the black Excursion coming up from the rear. Something was out of place but before he could think about it anymore, the light turned green. The F-150 continued straight in the direction he was heading.

  He changed his mind, turned right just to be on the safe side. There wasn’t a lot of traffic this early in the morning and three cars coming to the same stop light, from the same direction, didn’t feel right. As the Excursion turned right and the driver of the F-150 went into reverse, he yelled, “Buckle up…” just before he threw the shift into reverse, suddenly happy that he’d taken the upgrade offered at Tampa International but also wishing the car wasn’t fire-engine red.

  The back-end of the T-bird did a smooth 180. He stamped on the accelerator just as the Excursion sped past him. The driver of the F-150 was coming around at the same time, he swerved to miss him, ignoring the next red light as he raced away.

  A second Excursion came into view. The driver swerved to block the street. Scott zigged and zagged to get around him. He swung around a corner, ignoring ONE WAY and NO TURN signs.

  The F-150 was the only vehicle that could keep up at this point, but the other two drivers hadn’t given up. He could see their headlights in the rearview mirror.

  The F-150 was right on his tail. He shifted, stamped on the accelerator. The back-end fishtailed a bit but they’d surely make a clean getaway: A pickup truck couldn’t outrun or outmaneuver a muscle car.

  The T-bird topped out at 120. He was sure he could get more speed if the road leveled out but it was fast enough for now. The narrow one-way street made it seem like the buildings were closing in on them and Helen was already screaming, “Stop the car! Stop the car!”

  He slammed on the brakes but not because she asked him to: The street was ending and a black SUV was parked in the T of the intersection. The dim streetlight offered just enough light to see armed men standing in front of the SUV.

  He slowed down, planning to make a right turn but he was going too fast to maintain control of the car. The car spun through a half circle, the sliding back-end sent the gunmen running. As the left side of the T-bird slammed into the SUV, the driver-side window shattered.

  He pulled Helen down in the seat just before he raced off, expecting the gunmen to open fire but they didn’t. He raced down several streets, turning randomly. At an on-ramp to the interstate, he jammed on the brakes and the T-bird skidded to a halt. “You okay?” he asked.

  Helen bobbed her head, absently saying, “You?”

  Scott waited, watching the rearview mirror. “Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.” He leaned over, turned his left shoulder to her. “You any good with a needle and thread?”

  Seeing the blood and glass brought Helen back to reality. She unwrapped her arms from around her shoulders, stopped shaking. “You should see a doctor.”

  He shifted, accelerated, started onto the interstate. He took the next exit, came back around to the Ritz-Carlton. He didn’t pull up front. Instead, he went around back. “Switch places with me,” he told her.

  She furrowed her brow but did as he asked. As he came around the car, he opened the trunk. His garment bag had a field kit. He tossed it to Helen. “Always pays to be prepared.”

  “Well just what do you want me to do with this?” She took a closer look at his arm, started pulling out the glass shards. “You need stitches.”

  He reached over with his right hand, pushed in the lighter, waited. “Get the needle and thread.”

  “You want me to stitch you up. Here?”

  “Here.”

  “I’m liable to stitch you up crooked.”

  “Just like conducting, Helen, only use small, deliberate strokes. There’s a bottle under the driver’s seat.”

  “You don’t need a drink,” she shot back. “Sober or drunk the result will be the same.”

  “Not for me, for the shoulder. Douse the shoulder. Bourbon’s a pretty good antiseptic, trust me.”

  She poured the booze on the shoulder, sterilized the needle with the cigarette lighter and went to work. She put in twelve stitches along the jagged gash. He sat still, unflinching when the needle went in, and just as steady when the thread was pulled tight and knotted.

  Afterward, she helped him put on a clean shirt and a light jacket. A few minutes later he drove the T-bird around to the front of the Ritz-Carlton.

  He unlocked the trunk for the porter, gave the car keys and an Abraham Lincoln to a kid who looked barely sixteen, then escorted her into the hotel. They both ignored questions about the broken window and the battered fenders.

  Following Scott’s nod, Helen went to the counter. She asked if they could check back in to Room 908. The room was available.

  Not long afterward, Scott found himself eyeballing the single king-size bed in Room 908. Helen went into the bathroom to freshen up. He removed his jacket and shoes, then claimed the left side of the bed.

  Helen emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. She was naked. No surprise. He ignored her and closed his eyes. She said, “Are you going to sleep with that thing strapped around your shoulder?”

  “The gun stays where it is. Turn off the light.” “It could get in the way.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Helen.”

  She turned off the light, climbed in bed and started blowing in his ear. “Even now?”

  “Go to sleep.” He rolled onto his side. “I can’t sleep.” She turned the light back on.

  He rolled onto his back, stared at her.

  She turned onto her side facing him. She said softly, “Who did you disappoint?”

  Scott was quiet. He tried not to let himself feel anything.

  She repeated, “Who did you disappoint?”

  “My father wanted me to be a doctor. My mother wanted me to be a lawyer. But I sort of went into the family business instead.”

  “Would you hate me forever if I disappointed you, like you hate them for making you something you’re not?”

  “I don’t hate my parents, and nobody made me what I am. I made me what I am.”

  “That’s not the truth, I see it behind your eyes. May saw it. I see it. That’s why she said we’d be good together. She’s never wrong.”

  “There are things I choose not to remember because I don’t want to.” He reached over her and shut off the table lamp. “Get some sleep.”

  When he awoke it was almost noon and he thought the world had surely ended. Beside him, Helen was still sleeping. He went to the window and drew back the drapes. As bright sunshine bathed the room, Helen moaned and pulled a pillow over her head. He went into the bathroom and took a shower. Soap and hot water tore away the stiffness of a long and fitful sleep. He was careful not to get the bandaged shoulder wet but the bandage got soaked anyway.

  He was in the midst of washing that spot in the middle of his back that he could never quite reach when he heard the bathroom door open. Helen folded back the shower curtain. He expected her to step into the shower with him. Instead, she just poked her head in and said, “The phone’s ringing. Should I answer it?”

  He looked at her. She smiled. “You couldn’t have said that from over there?”

  “And miss this?” She smiled again. “Should I answer it or not?”

  “A
nswer it if that’s what you want to do.”

  “That’s not what I want to do, but I’ll do it.”

  He soaped up his underarms, rinsed the conditioner out of his hair, then let the hot water soothe him for a moment more before getting out of the shower. If there was one thing he would remember about the Ritz-Carlton, it would be their towels: soft and plush. His garment bag was in the closet. He took out a clean pair of slacks, a matching jacket, and a button-down cotton shirt. No tie, he felt constrained in a tie, and only wore one when it was a necessity.

  He had his shirt halfway buttoned when he remembered his shoulder and the bandages that needed to be changed. “Helen?”

  he called out, “Can you help me with this?”

  There was no answer. He took the field kit out of the bag and set about cutting gauze and taping it over the wound.

  He finished buttoning up the cotton shirt in front of the bathroom mirror and went to find his boots. He noticed the hotel room door was ajar. The TV was on, so he presumed Helen was watching it. He called out, “Helen?”

  He walked toward the blaring TV. “Helen?”

  The room was empty. The phone rang. Scott snatched it up. “Helen, where are you?”

  “Are you watching the TV?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Are you watching the TV?”

  He turned toward the TV. “Who is this?”

  The phone went dead. He noticed this only vaguely as he stared at the TV. The twelve o’clock news was on. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His stomach muscles bunched up in knots.

  “Tampa firefighters have been battling this four-alarm fire since dawn. Local residents say there was an explosion around 5 a.m., what appears to be a gas explosion, and that the building went up in a huge fireball that threatened to consume its neighbors. The neighboring apartment buildings were evacuated within minutes, but the fire here at Emerald Grove burned so hot and so quick firefighters are not sure if anyone survived. This is Tina—”Scott clicked off the TV, his thoughts turned to Helen. He slipped on his boots as he stumbled to the elevator. When the elevator opened on the first floor, he raced through the lobby to the street. The street was a moving mass of humanity. He closed his eyes for an instant to recall what Helen wore the day before, which he hoped she was wearing now—a baggy, yellow sun dress. He stared up and down the street. Baggy, yellow sun dress. Baggy, yellow sun dress.

  He ran back to the hotel lobby, went to the front desk. “Did anyone see a woman with long black hair, wearing a yellow sun dress?”

  One of the clerks shrugged. Another recommended he try the pool area or the beach. He went out to the pool and the beach, but didn’t find Helen. He went back to the room thinking she might have returned there. The room was just as he left it. His mind started working. The keys, the car keys. Where were they?

  They weren’t in his pocket. They weren’t on the nightstand.

  He pulled at his hair and shouted at the walls, but it didn’t help. He searched the room in case the keys dropped out of his pocket. Helen’s purse was on the table. The gym bag full of money was tossed casually in the closet right where the porter left it. Helen’s overnight bag was beside the bed. Only the car keys were missing.

  He called down to the front desk, told them he was checking out and asked if they would get the bill ready and send up a porter. He hung up the phone and closed his eyes as he tried to think. If he were Helen, where would he go? Would she drive back to Tampa? Not likely, not Helen. Would she go home?

  Would she go back to Boca Raton? Maybe, if she thought Jessica might be there.

  He rented another car. Hertz delivered it to the Ritz-Carlton.

  It wasn’t rush hour, so it was only a forty-minute drive to Boca Raton, and in less than an hour, he was parking around the corner from J. Wellmen & Associates. He looked for the red T-bird he rented in Tampa, but didn’t see it.

  The front door of the office was closed and locked. He walked around to the back door. He took a set of lock picks out of his inside jacket pocket, not bothered by the fact that it was broad daylight and the little side street wasn’t deserted. He opened the door, glanced back over his shoulder, then entered.

  His eyes went wide as he closed the door behind him. The reception area was a mess. The desk was on its side. The couch was ripped apart. One of the closet doors was off its hinges. He raced into the back room. The floor of the room was wall-to-wall gizmos before but now it was clean swept, as if someone went over it inch by inch with a magnifying glass. The little desk in the far corner of the room was the same way, stripped bare—or was it?

  He saw something on the desktop. Papers maybe. No, a note. A note from Helen.

  He started reading:

  Scott,

  Made amess of things, didn’t I? Don’t hate me. I didn’t have achoice. Don’t look for me. You won’t find me. No one will find me ever again. No one will hurt me ever again.

  Iwanted to help you. You have to know that, but I couldn’t. Do you see now what happens when Isay things Ishouldn’t? Ihave something he wants. He has something Iwant. Do you understand?

  Probably not. Well, you don’t need to. Ileft something for you, Scott. You’re my ace in the hole. Check your beige jacket.

  Helen of Troy

  Scott ran back to the car, unzipped the garment bag and took out his beige sports coat. He worked his way through the pockets one at a time, carefully, because he wasn’t sure what he would find. In the inside left breast pocket, he found three pieces of folded-up paper. He unfolded them. They read:

  Thursday, December 9

  XWEH

  Friday, December 10

  Deliver PT 2:00

  Saturday, December 11

  Airport 8:30

  These were the missing days from the desk calendar. In a few hours, Scott would realize how valuable these clues were, but right now he was pissed off and more than ready to tear his hair out. Don’t hate me. What the hell did that mean? If Helen wanted to help him, she should’ve stayed, should’ve told him everything a long time ago.

  He leaned over, put his head against the wall. More than anything he wanted to be home with Cynthia but he no longer felt worthy of her love. He’d done things that he swore he’d never do with another woman. It didn’t matter that he was coerced or drugged, what mattered was that deep down he enjoyed Helen’s games.

  He was sick. Sick. There was no other explanation.

  Chapter 11

  Miami, Florida Tuesday, 11 January

  Scott drove three blocks to the 7-11 down the street from J. Wellmen & Associates. Someone was on the pay phone. He glanced at his watch to check the time and waited in the car until the phone became available. Glen would still be at the office in DC. He dialed the office number. Someone answered. He said, “Hello.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a long time.

  He knew someone was there because he heard breathing, then finally Glen replied, “Clear blue sky.”

  He told Glen about finding the missing calendar pages, the two cryptic messages and the reference to the airport, but didn’t say how they came into his possession. “Do you think the boys in Analysis can make something of that?”

  “You’ll know when I know.”

  “How long will the Apollo search take?”

  “It’ll take some time. I’ll make sure they make a clean sweep. Wellmen or Johnson—Johnson, right?”

  “Johnson, yes.”

  “We’ll find it if it’s there. Give me a call back in a few hours.”

  “I need some help with a credit card search on Jessica and Helen. All purchases in the last few—”“Get to a fax. You’ll have everything you need.”

  “I’m outside a 7-11, I’ll get their Q-fax number—”“Scott, there’s one thing I have to ask. Is your guest still with you?”

  He was suddenly glad he wasn’t on a video phone. “In the car, why?”

  “Good. Get me that fax number.”

  He switche
d the phone to his right ear. “How is Cynthia?”

  “Stronger. Her father has made arrangements for private nurses. He wants her home and not in a sterile hospital. Says confidently the smell of her room, the house, will bring her back. I believe him. The doctors say there’s no explanation as to why she hasn’t come out of the coma.”

  “I’m going to get this bastard, Glen, if it’s the last thing I ever do.” He hung up the phone.

  Ten minutes after he called Glen back and gave him the fax number, the Q-fax at the 7-11 came to life. Two hot dogs and a Big Gulp later, a thirty-page fax had finally finished printing. It was Jessica’s credit purchase history for the last ninety days. A minute later, the fax came to life again, this time it printed a single page containing Helen’s purchase history for the same period.

  After poring through Jessica’s purchases looking for purchase patterns, Scott decided to focus. He spent two days piecing together what he was sure was the last month of Jessica’s life, from the purchase of a handgun on the eleventh of November to the final purchase of two peach cobblers on the first of December. It seemed her life lay on the motel bed, written on little scraps of paper organized by day and week.

  Jessica had sixteen major credit cards, eight department store cards, and three gas cards. She charged everything from a pack of gum to an eighteen-hundred-dollar designer dress. She ate lunch at Alfredo’s every Thursday. Four bills for $32.08.

  He went to Alfredo’s. “I’m Ms. Wellmen’s accountant. I need to finalize the year end. Was that a party of two—business lunch?” “No, that was a party of one.” “J. Wellmen, right?” “Yes, spaghetti and marinara. Extra sauce. Don’t deliver the espresso until the plate is gone.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. No cream. No sugar. Ten-dollar tip. Wellmen.”

  Through other purchases, Scott followed Jessica up the coast on two weekend getaways. Three fill-ups. A stop for supper in Palm Bay. A breakfast, a lunch, and a supper at a tiny restaurant on the outskirts of Summer Haven. Two fill-ups. A stop for brunch in Palm Bay.

  On Fridays, if she was melancholy, she bought a Big Gulp and a box of Twinkies, charged it to Visa Platinum. Ed from the 7-11 attested to the fact that she never ate it. Rather, she purchased it, Ed consumed and Jessica watched. They talked until his shift ended. Never anything more than the weather, the news or his family. Jessica mostly listened while Ed told her about his three daughters, five sons and eighteen grandchildren. Jessica was a good listener, or at least that’s what Ed said.