by Terry Odell
That’s your dick talking, Windsor. Of course you love me. We just fucked our brains out and you liked it and you want more and you’ll say what you think I need to hear to get it.
Well, she probably would say it more politely, but he’d know what she meant. He swallowed the glass of wine without tasting it. The doorbell buzzed. Quan had made good time with their dinner. His appetite had fled. He dragged himself to the door. Opening it without a thought, he stood face to face with a pumped-up African-American. Hardly the slight Asian Quan. The man smiled, revealing a gold-rimmed front tooth with a star imbedded in it. He wore black denims, a black polo and held a cardboard box with two brown paper bags inside.
“Your dinner, Mr. Windsor. One Kung Pao, one cashew chicken.” The man took two steps into the apartment.
“Where’s Quan?” Blake glanced at his watch. Floyd would be on duty in the lobby and he rarely paid attention to deliveries.
The man gave a half-smile and scanned the apartment. “Last minute mix-up—he was on another run, so they sent me.”
If he’d learned anything lately, it was that trust wasn’t something to be doled out in vast quantities.
“Wait there a second.” Without turning, he called out, much louder than he needed to. “Emily! My wallet’s in the bottom drawer of the night table, darling. Can you bring it out, please? Dinner’s waiting.”
* * * * *
Kelli stopped folding her clothes. Blake could get his own damn wallet, which, as he damn well knew, was in the damn pocket of his damn trousers—the ones she’d pulled down his damn legs a few hours ago.
Grumbling to herself, she took two steps toward his slacks and realization hit her like a bucket of ice. He knew where his wallet was. And he’d called her Emily. Emily darling. She hurried around the bed and opened the drawer. A Smith and Wesson. Something was wrong out there. She checked it, found it loaded.
“Coming!” she called.
Holding the gun in both hands, she walked slowly around the wall. Blake sat on the arm of the couch, watching a large African-American man just inside the door. The man held what looked like a delivery of their dinner. Yeah and Scumbag had looked like a park ranger.
“Keep your hands on the box,” she said to the man.
“Hey, lady,” the man said. “It’s only dinner. You owe me eighteen-forty-seven, but I’m happy to hand it over. If you can’t pay for it, no problem. Honest. I’ll make it up to the restaurant.”
“Check him out,” she said to Blake without taking her eyes off the man. For someone with a gun pointed at him, Delivery Man didn’t look particularly nervous.
She watched Blake step forward and pat him down. “No wallet. Why am I not surprised?” He slid his hands under the man’s open jacket and reached behind him.
“Well, lookie here.” Blake displayed an automatic, pointed it at Delivery Man.
“Hey, it’s for self-defense,” the man proclaimed. “You know, it’s dangerous out there.”
“Hell, it’s dangerous in here,” Blake said. “And what’s this I feel under your shirt?” Blake’s hands lifted the man’s polo shirt, revealing a length of rope wrapped around his waist. “You’re not going to tell me you carry this in case your belt breaks, are you?”
Blake removed the rope. “I’ve got him now, Sweetheart. I think there’s some duct tape in the broom closet—beside the fridge. I’m not all that good with knots.”
“Glad you watch MacGyver, too.” She hurried to find the tape. Now that Blake had things under control, her hands shook and her knees threatened to give way.
She found the tape and brought it back to Blake. “What are we going to do with him?” She started taping the man’s wrists behind his back. “We can’t exactly call the cops.”
“Not from here. I’ll bet my phone is bugged and they intercepted the call to the restaurant. Or maybe someone bugged the whole effing apartment.” He looked at the man. “I don’t suppose there’s really food in here?”
“You wouldn’t eat it, if there was, would you?” she asked.
“Definitely not.”
“Who knows how long there’s been a bug in here. Someone could have done it easily enough while you were gone.”
Blake shoved the man onto the couch and she started to tape his ankles.
Blake kept the coffee table between him and the man. “Why are you here?”
“To rob you. What else?”
“In that case, I suggest you have your gun more accessible before you knock on the door,” Kelli said.
“And why don’t I believe you?” Blake didn’t lower the gun. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
“Try again.”
“John Smith,” Delivery Man said.
“He’s being awfully cooperative, don’t you think?” she asked. Her hands had stopped trembling so badly now that the man was secure.
“Oh, yeah. A picture of cooperation.” Blake’s voice was controlled fury. His eyes were slits. “Look, buster. I’m abso-fucking-lutely fed up with people coming after me. Or were you after her?” Blake stepped toward Delivery Man and placed the gun barrel against his forehead.
“Hey, take it easy. I don’t know the guy. He says his name is John Smith and he transfers money into my bank account when I do a job.”
“And, as I asked before, exactly what is the job you’re doing?”
“Come in here, rough you two up a little, tie you up, make it look like a robbery. Call when I was done.”
“You got the number?” Blake asked. “My finger gets tense when I get mad. I’d hate to have your brains all over my wall. I might lose my cleaning deposit.”
The man recited the number and she wrote it on a slip of paper. She thought for a moment and wrote it on a second slip and shoved it in the man’s pocket. “We need to put him somewhere, then call the cops. They’ll find this number on him. I doubt he’s going to tell them he was in this apartment.” She glared at the man. “Are you?”
“No. No. I ain’t saying nothing.”
The doorbell rang.
“Crap,” Blake said. “That’s probably Quan with our real dinner.”
“I’ll get your wallet.” She rushed back to the bedroom and found Blake’s trousers, his wallet still in the pocket. Back in the living room, she stood guard over Delivery Man while Blake managed to pay Quan without opening the door far enough for him to see inside. Blake put the food on the kitchen counter, leaned his arms against it and lowered his head. When he looked up, he seemed in control.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s figure this one out. We can’t have him connected to us. We can’t let anyone know he’s succeeded or failed. I figure we have maybe an hour, tops, before someone tries to check up on him.”
“What about the doorman?” she asked. “Will he help?”
“I don’t think he’d be able to lie for us. I don’t want him to. What about if we schlep this creep to the laundry room? Or the fitness center? Somewhere any tenant could find him and call the cops.”
“For a quick plan, that sounds like it might work. But it would be better if he could be caught robbing someone else’s apartment.”
“I can’t get a handle on that one.” Blake straightened up and looked at Delivery Man. “You know anyone named McGregor?”
The man shook his head, but not before Kelli saw a flicker of recognition. She looked at Blake. He’d seen it, too. “So much for the three-attacks-in-three-cities-is-too-much theory,” she said to him.
Blake stormed over and grabbed Delivery Man’s shirt. “Oh, so you and Scumbag are acquainted. How do you know him?”
“I didn’t say I did.”
Blake spoke between clenched jaws. “You didn’t have to. I repeat. How do you know him?”
“Served some time together.”
“Does McGregor know John Smith, too?” Blake asked.
“Hell, how would I know? Haven’t seen the fucker since he got out. And that’s the truth.”
Blake went on. “I’m t
ired of this. I’m going to take him to the laundry room on ten. Get me a knife so I can cut his ankles loose. I’m sure he’s going to walk nicely.”
“Give me a minute to put my slacks on. I’m going with you,” she said. “I can make sure there’s nobody in there.”
Blake flashed her a smile. “So, we’re together again?”
She managed to return the smile. “Like white on rice.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Blake sat in a molded plastic chair in the bus station. Kelli slouched three seats away and two rows in front of him, wearing sweats and a baseball cap. She had insisted on a circuitous route, buying a train ticket from Chicago to Spokane using Jack’s EnviroCon credit card, but taking a bus to Madison instead. And then getting off and buying tickets to Champaign.
Incognito in his handyman clothes, he stared at the scuffed linoleum on the floor, playing a mental connect-the-dots with the gray spots of dried gum. The smell of burned coffee, sweat and urine carried him back. How many years had it been since he’d been in a bus terminal? He and his brother, sitting on chairs exactly like these, their feet too short to reach the ground. Their old man between them, delaying rather than preventing the inevitable sibling fights brought on by boredom, lack of sleep and frustration at picking up stakes one more time.
Their feet rested on the battered suitcases—one each—holding everything they owned, not that they’d have been allowed to own more than would fit in their suitcases, even if they could have afforded it.
Chins up, boys. Work’s awaiting. And where there’s work, there’s hope. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.
Blake’s stomach growled and he thought of the Chinese food he and Kelli had shoved in the refrigerator before they’d dashed away. He eyed the vending machines. Aside from the prices, they hadn’t changed much since he’d been a kid. Oh, they hadn’t gone hungry, but he hardly remembered ever feeling full. The old man could stretch a dollar, but the vending machine fare in bus depots rarely matched his budget. Blake had been in his teens before it had dawned on him that on those occasions when they’d been allowed to buy a treat from the machine, or celebrate a birthday with more than a fast food burger, it had meant his dad had skipped a meal.
The familiar angst clenched his gut and he blinked tears back before they had a chance to form.
Can’t change what happened, boys. All we can do is move forward and make things better.
A little over three hours ago, he and Kelli had dropped Delivery Man into a thankfully empty laundry room, tying him, spread-eagled, to the legs of the Formica folding and sorting counter. By now, he was sure, someone would have found him.
This was beginning to be a replay of their escape from Scumbag, although this time, instead of endless flights of stairs, they’d taken the elevator to the second floor and only walked the last one to avoid going out the front door where the doorman would see them.
Delivery Man didn’t talk. Whoever was paying him—and probably Scumbag—commanded loyalty, in the form of bail bonds and high-priced legal representation, he’d bet.
Whoever was behind this had to be desperate to attack again, of that much Blake was certain. Despite their joking about it, three attacks in three cities was a flashing neon sign that someone wanted something. It had to be about more than Robert. Too bad he had no clue what.
He glanced up at Kelli. Even though her back was to him, he could tell she was checking the door regularly. He knew she was itching to get her fingers onto a keyboard, that the phone number for John Smith was burning a hole in her pocket, but after a rousing few minutes of heated discussion, they’d agreed to wait until they were out of Chicago.
“Hollingsworth,” she’d insisted. “He knew you were here.”
“Jack Stockbridge could have found us easily enough—we used his credit card for the flight.”
“Maybe they’re in it together.”
“What about Thornton?”
Which was why they were taking the bus, paying cash, and sitting two rows apart in the Madison depot.
He saw Kelli’s head jerk upward and followed her gaze to a television set flicking a static-filled, soundless newscast. Dwight Hollingsworth, his wife, and Vance Griffith stood together, their hands joined overhead. Things were getting underway for the next gubernatorial race.
A garbled mechanical announcement crackled from the loudspeaker and he reached for his duffel. Kelli was already standing, her gym bag slung over one shoulder and a small rolling case she’d borrowed from him at her side. They boarded the bus in silence.
Barely half-full, the bus afforded a choice of seats. Kelli stopped by an empty row and accepted his help in wrestling the case into the overhead bin. The gym bag, which contained her precious laptop, she set on the seat beside her, one hand resting protectively on its top, as if to tell any other passengers she’d move it out of the way, but only if there weren’t any other seats. He sighed and took the aisle seat across from her.
He saw her anger, her frustration, and her strength. Thankful for the last, he leaned back and closed his eyes. She’d put her trust in him this time, letting him call his brother.
How long since he and Brian had really spoken? Their relationship had degenerated to Christmas cards and birthday phone calls, but Brian hadn’t hesitated to drop everything and help.
“I’ll be at the station to meet you,” he’d said. “Nobody’s using the old place. It’s yours.”
Which, in fact, wasn’t quite the truth anymore, but he didn’t want to think of that. Too many memories. He hadn’t told Brian he’d deeded the property to Torrie, Brian and Stacey’s four-year-old daughter. He thought of his niece. She’d been five days old the last time he’d seen her. All red and wrinkled, but with a blue-eyed gaze that could melt a glacier. Would Brian have her along? No, it was too late for a little one to be out.
He sensed more passengers trickling onto the bus, spreading out among the empty seats. With the whoosh of the hydraulic doors closing, and the rumble of the engine kicking into gear, the bus pulled out of the station.
* * * * *
Kelli found her portable CD player and inserted a Natalie Merchant disc. Adjusting the earphones, she reclined the seat and closed her eyes. There was something itching at the back of her brain, and she’d find it. For now, she’d rest. Maybe even sleep. She’d hesitated about accepting help from Blake’s brother, but Blake had sworn Hollingsworth didn’t know anything about Brian. A risk, but for now, it was one they’d decided to take. It was a place that didn’t require a hotel, airplane, or intervention from Jack Stockbridge.
Jack. Shit, he couldn’t have set her up. He wouldn’t. But what if someone had come back and forced him—hurt him again? She pushed the thought away. Blake had been right. Better not to call. Not while there was any doubt—even if all the doubt was his. Her fists clenched involuntarily and she forced a deep, relaxing breath. The only thing traceable was a train ticket to Spokane and that was a good thing, since they were going the other way. Everything else had been done using a disposable cell phone and not from Blake’s possibly bugged apartment. They’d paid cash for the bus tickets. Worrying wasn’t going to answer any questions.
She let her mind float with Natalie’s melodies and drifted into sleep. From time to time, she was aware of the bus stopping, taking on and disgorging passengers, but nobody intruded on her space.
A hand at her shoulder jerked her awake. She blinked and looked across the aisle.
“About ten more minutes,” Blake said.
“Mmh. Thanks.” She yawned and checked her watch. Right on schedule. She put her CD player away, put her bag on the floor and slid to the window seat. Gazing out the window, she saw—not much. The highway was almost deserted and there was little on the roadside.
“Where the heck are we? Middle of Nowhere, USA?”
Blake slid into the seat beside her and leaned over. She inhaled at the heat he brought with him. Their eyes caught for a moment and she was glad the interior of th
e bus was too dark to see their brown depths.
“Almost. We’re outside of Champaign.”
“What are those lights?”
“Harvest lights. Tractors. They’re picking the crops. This area grows corn and soybeans. Lots of corn and soybeans.”
“I thought you were a city boy. What do you know about corn and soybeans?”
“I spent a few years here. I’m sure you can dig out when and why in your magic computer.”
She glared at him for the sarcasm in his tone. “I told you, I only dug as far as I needed to find out who you were. I trust you to tell me anything else I should know.”
By now, the bus had wheezed into the Champaign station and Blake wriggled her carry-on from the overhead. He set it in the aisle and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sorry.”
The lights inside the bus came on and she saw strain in his eyes. Averting her gaze, she slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “No sweat. Let’s go.”
Blake stepped behind her and she heard him inhale a deep breath. It seemed to take a long time for the exhale. She’d attributed his edgy mood to being on the run again, but there was more than worry etched on his face. For all his insistence that this was the quick solution to their predicament, he didn’t want to be here.
An old man dressed in a baggy brown suit shuffled down the aisle ahead of them. She waited until he’d made it safely to the ground before following. As she stepped off the bus into the cool, crisp air, there was an earthy scent that worked its way over the bus fumes. Without turning to see that Blake was behind her, she dragged the carryon over the rough asphalt toward the glass doors of the depot. The room, virtually identical to the one they’d departed from, was empty at first glance. She stopped and faced Blake, raising her eyebrows. He inclined his head toward the vending machines.
In the shadow of the coffee machine, a man dressed in jeans and a fleece sweatshirt, unzipped to reveal a plaid shirt underneath, gave a slight dip of his chin. A lock of chestnut brown hair dipped over his eyes and he brushed it aside as he stepped forward. His face was older, more rugged than Blake’s, with intense blue eyes instead of brown, but there was no denying they were related.