Still another day went by. Montgomery swore to himself he was going to let her know over dinner tonight. There was no backing down from the disclosure or the resulting fallout. No more killing. No more meat. Tomorrow it was back to work and he wanted to start his return to the daily grind with a fresh outlook on life.
Tonight.
For sure.
In the late afternoon he stopped by Maize to check on things… again. His sous chefs and line cooks gave him shit for not taking a proper vacation. “You return tomorrow, right? What the hell are you doing here today?” they questioned and shook their heads.
When he thought about it he hadn’t had a proper vacation since he went to Paris oh so many years ago. Jamaica, maybe, but he was actually there for a work-related seminar. However, each time he went somewhere exotic and vacationesque he brought something back with him.
Paris gave him cannibalism.
Jamaica, love.
What next? Drug abuse? Leprosy? An affair?
No thanks. No more proper vacations for him. Besides, when he wasn’t working he felt like he was going completely and totally crazy. He felt like the restaurant was falling apart without him.
Which, of course, was unfounded, Maize was holding up fine without him. There were a few ordering issues and an unreliable food server that caused a bit of trouble, but nothing too worrisome. Montgomery couldn’t wait to take a little control and get back to it tomorrow night. He loved his job and was missing it terribly.
Driving home the small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a cold shudder shook him from the inside out.
Something was wrong.
Paranoia darted his eyes and layered his skin with a thin sheen of cool sweat. Jitters pervaded. He couldn’t take this shit anymore. Murder was a young man’s game and he wasn’t getting any younger. Montgomery took a few deep breaths and tried to let it go. These sick, worried feelings generally dissipated after a few minutes, but as he weaved his Maserati in and out of traffic it only intensified and filled him in like a suffocating fog.
In his rearview mirror there was nothing unusual going on. At first glance he noticed the ever-present throng of traffic that always impeded his drive home from Maize. No cops or dead victims come back to life looking for him. As he turned corner after corner, winding his way home via an abnormal route, he began to notice one car in particular.
It was a gray Volkswagen Jetta, beat up, dusty and definitely tailing him. He thought he might have seen the same car in the parking lot of Maize before he left. The restaurant was closed briefly between the lunch and dinner shifts and there were only a few cars littering the parking lot – his, the restaurant manager’s, a line cook’s, a food server or two, but perhaps he was letting his paranoia get the best of him. His guilt ridden brain was prone to playing tricks on him and memory probably capitalized on his suspicions by magically inserting the vehicle in to the recalled scene.
Montgomery took a few more unnecessary turns and inadvertently wound up on a residential street that ended in a cul-de-sac. Sure enough, the car followed.
Squinting into his rearview, it was plain to see that a woman with a pair of oversized, bug-eyed sunglasses was operating the Jetta. She had dark hair and looked young. There was something familiar about her but Montgomery couldn’t place it. Fear began to wither beneath a rising anger. What the fuck was this woman doing following him?
To be sure Montgomery circled around the cul-de-sac and made a few more odd turns until he happened upon another residential street that dead ended in yet another cul-de-sac. This time the car kept on and drove off. Montgomery circled the cul-de-sac and when he came out on the other side he saw the suspicious car moving super slowly, nearly idling in place, creeping away up the street. He turned in the opposite direction, drove a bit and then saw the other car’s brake lights flash in his rearview mirror. Montgomery turned onto the next residential street, also a cul-de-sac, and parked alongside the curb beneath a gigantic shade tree to lay in wait.
Sure enough the dusty gray Jetta turned onto the same street and obliviously cruised past him. Montgomery put his car into park, pulled the parking break into place and jumped out. He stood in the middle of the street and waited for the Jetta to circle the cul-de-sac and approach. He was going to get to the bottom of this shit.
What was he going to do?
He had no clue, he wasn’t generally one for confrontation, but everything inside – the guilt, the fear, the worry – was boiling to a head and he had to stop running away from it. If this weirdo wanted to play, he was game.
The driver of the Volkswagen rolled toward him slowly. Montgomery walked forward, closing distance, and then stopped a few feet away and raised his hands as if to say ‘What the fuck?’ Verbally he cleaned it up a bit and just said, “What?” But it came out extremely hostile, with a little more anger than Montgomery had planned on spiking his volume with.
The young woman stopped the car a few feet from him and then got out and stood between her car and its door. She pulled the door against her like a shield and though the expression of her eyes were cut off by the dark sunglasses, her mouth, a jittery line, and her shaky physicality, clearly exuded fright.
Where had he seen her before? Something about her made him uneasy.
And what was up with this funky scene?
A showdown in the streets: Montgomery, a man against the world, standing dead center in the middle of the road and this mystery woman, this aggressor, tormentor, spy, cowering behind the flimsy metal of her dirty car door.
Considering his history and penchant for finding himself in rather macabre situations, Montgomery had to concede that he had been through much stranger shit. And taking it all in, sizing up her tiny frame and obvious fright, he immediately calmed down and lowered his hands. The fire and anger and irritation that drove him to stand in the middle of the flipping street began to wane. He took a few grounding breaths and then asked a little easier, “Why are you following me?”
The woman didn’t answer, instead big teardrops poured from beneath her sunglasses and sobs began to rack her thin shoulders.IV
IV
The Lotus Eaters
There were times, at least a handful of them in her life, when Ashley had to kind of just step back and ask herself, ‘What the fuck am I doing?’
This was definitely one of those moments.
And be it the heroin, or a lack of sleep, or the ache that roiled in her guts when she thought about her best friend gone missing, the world around her suddenly became way too much to bear. Tears broke and a full-on cry exploded from the inside out.
The abductor stood his ground and stared at her quizzically. She felt like the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth.
After leaving the mall a few days ago Ashley could think about nothing but Heather’s whereabouts and the possibility that this man, the abductor, the enemy, the followed, had something to do with her disappearance.
She obsessed over it and went into detective mode.
Henry told her to ‘Let it go,’ to just call Heather’s mom and let her know anything of note and then leave it alone. But Ashley couldn’t just call Heather’s mom, ever since high school they didn’t get along and Ashley wasn’t even allowed to come around the Palmer residence. She was a “bad influence.” Those brief seconds on the phone with Mrs. Palmer while driving home felt super awkward. Ashley couldn’t imagine having an extended conversation with the woman. She wished she could just go to the cops and get them to dig around a bit, but their heroin habit prevented her and Henry from speaking with the police and besides, all they really knew about this potential captor was that his first name was Montgomery and that he wore funny cook clothes and drove an expensive car. What were they going to tell the police? Such strong accusations were trouble in the making.
“But we saw him approach her car, Henry!” she argued.
“It doesn’t prove anything. Maybe they met at the mall for their date and Heather hadn’t returned to pic
k it up, maybe he was just checking on it. She’ll turn up.”
Maybe.
But, when Henry listed ‘all they knew’ in a fruitless effort to legitimize the idea of leaving things well alone, it got Ashley to thinking. That expensive car and the knowledge of his profession and his first name were more than enough to get started tracking him down and getting to the bottom of things.
So she waited one more day.
Heather still didn’t answer her phone or return any calls. Ashley was beyond worried and had a tough time focusing. Henry wasn’t due in the studio that afternoon, but since they decided to forgo kicking their habit, he figured it was best to keep working on the album and managed to book a little time which meant he wasn’t coming back until late. She had the day off from work. Other than her occasional fix, Ashley had nothing to do, nothing to distract her or keep her grounded. She cleaned the apartment and tried to watch a few talk shows. She called CHAOS to see if Heather had come in for her shift and to make sure any subsequent scheduling changes hadn’t been put into play as a result.
Her missing friend was still a no show and everything was still the same with the schedule. Errol was pulling a double to cover the hours. Ashley was still due in the next day to open and the rest of her work week was the same. The management was handling things accordingly. Errol told Ashley that if she found Heather to tell her that she was all but fired, unless she had an incredible excuse.
Boredom and frustration found Ashley surfing the Internet. She began with Googling Henry’s band (a solid twenty pages worth of articles and fan sites and promo stuff) and then moved on to e-bay to look for some hot vintage clothes and retro music equipment (Henry’s passion). Nothing interesting (or within her price range anyways). She checked Heather’s retarded MySpace page – nothing – her last login was four days ago. She then returned to Google and typed in the query: “Montgomery, Chef, Los Angeles.”
Amazingly, that’s all it took.
Sorting through the hits she almost instantly stumbled upon an article that came out in the LA Weekly a few months ago. It was a profile of a restaurant called Maize. There was a color picture of Montgomery and some other guy (the owner) standing in a kitchen alongside an array of delicious looking dishes. The article gave lots of information about the restaurant owner and a few tidbits about Montgomery’s culinary background. The article also included the restaurant contact information – an address, a phone number and a website URL.
It was all simply too much to resist.
What did she hope to accomplish? She wasn’t sure.
Henry had cautioned her (and he was right, she thought as she fixed up in the bathroom before heading out to do some detective work) about talking to the police. Junkies were pretty easy to identify. The last thing they needed was an army of pigs kicking in their door and raiding them in search of their meager stash. All she really wanted to do was take a look, just a peek to see if this Montgomery character was up to no good.
After shooting up, she mapquested Maize and made the short drive across town. When she got to the restaurant, a very fancy upscale joint, she parked her car in a lonely corner of the parking lot underneath a large tree. This vestige of a world past, surrounded by concrete and commerce, cast a large circle of forgiving shade and it was here within its shadowy influence where Ashley laid in wait for her prey.
Montgomery’s slick Maserati was parked a good hundred feet away near the artistically sculpted restaurant face. When he exited she would tail him, get his home address and then go from there. Maybe she would stake the place out. Maybe she would simply get up the courage to approach and ask the guy if he had seen Heather or what was going on or something. Though nefarious means took dominion in her brain and she feared the worst, the solution was probably much more anemic.
When she found that bitch she was going to kill her for putting her through this nightmare.
Tailing somebody wasn’t nearly as easy as it looked on television. When she was little her dad watched every detective show from Perry Mason to Simon and Simon to Magnum PI and they always made it look so very smooth. Traffic and the heroin’s tendency to betray focus didn’t help matters much. Ashley struggled to keep up with Montgomery’s sports car all the while trying to avoid being spotted.
Once they broke from busy city streets into the calmer roadways of suburbia she figured she had it locked up. Montgomery would pull into his driveway and she’d cruise on by only to turn around a few minutes later to get a better look at his house. Then she’d take down the address and be on her way, temporarily concluding her screwball investigation until she figured out what needed to be done next.
Ashley was hoping to get a glimpse of something substantial. Maybe Heather would be staring out the front window of the cook’s house, forlorn and despondent and awaiting rescue. Or maybe she would burst out of the front door and throw her arms around his neck and kiss him like only the newly smitten were apt to.
The fantasies twisted and deepened and the panic centers deep in Ashley’s brain teetered on and off.
On: Heather was screaming bloody murder in a sound proof room beneath Mr. Successful’s surely beautiful house. She needed saving in the worst way. In fact, this motherfucking scumbag had her tied to a chair rigged with explosives, no, saw blades and salt, and if she moved wrong or refused to suck his syphilis ridden dick; a shaky mechanism would go off and slice her to ribbons.
Off: Heather was far better off with Mr. Successful. She was finally free of her and Henry and the cavalcade of losers that gravitated toward them and their toxic habits.
Ashley tightened her grip on the steering wheel and tried to keep a good distance away from her target. She had to focus. For Heather’s sake (and her own) she had to remain objective and clear headed. She had to be super subtle…
The very moment she fucked up she knew it.
Montgomery’s car hesitated a bit and he kept checking his rearview mirror. More so than registering these visual cues, Ashley felt them like blips on a radar screen or a tripwire triggering. Wince inducing pulses of fear began throbbing in time with her erratic heartbeat. She bit her lower lip and debated evasive action. He was definitely on to her. Should she abandon her mission?
Instead of continuing on and compromising her situation she followed him out of a dead end cul-de-sac and when he turned left, she turned right and slowly drove off in the opposite direction. She only got a few feet, when in her rearview mirror she saw Montgomery turn on to the very next street. There was no way she could let it go. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her after all.
Perhaps…
Crying felt like the only logical thing to do.
Well not logical, but she couldn’t really help it if she wanted to.
Trapped, the abductor standing in the middle of the street, Ashley’s skin went flush, alternately cool and hot with beads of sweat. There was a short-lived impulse to step on the gas and blow past him (or over him), but the point of her investigation was to figure out what was going on. There was probably never going to be a better time than right now.
So she sucked it up and got out of the car and readied herself to interrogate the man who may have stolen her best friend, but instead of queries and all of the tough talking shit she had planned on berating him with, tears welled. Frustration got the better of her. Disappointment, not quitting heroin like she had planned, Heather not returning her calls, those unfilled out college applications bookmarked on her computer, Montgomery’s nice car, his job, his potential, his status dwarfing her’s or Henry’s or anybody she associated with, her shit apartment, her nowhere plans, all came filtering in like a soul crushing wave.
The moment she was out of her Jetta sobs racked her silly and forced her to lean on the car’s flimsy door for support.
What a flipping mess she must have looked.
What an idiot.
The abductor should go ahead and do what he does best (abduct her) and be done with it.
Ashley fought with her emotions fo
r control. She didn’t win out completely, but she got a foot hold and began to claw her way back.
Who cares about status?
About the haves or the have-nots?
About a college education or a fucking future or veins run through with opiates?
She shouldn’t give a fuck.
That was the whole point. That was the linchpin upon which her whole ideology was based. Punk Motherfucking Rock.
Stupid.
She and Henry weren’t getting any younger, yet they were clinging to ideals that were clearly defined and embraced by the youth.
Montgomery stared at her with an almost confused look on his face. He put up a hand, stop formation, but easier, lighter, as if to say ‘It’s okay. Whatever the deal is here, it’s okay.’ Suddenly, he looked like the furthest thing from the kidnapping, raping, murderous slug Ashley pegged him for. His eyes were kind and shiny with concern. His mouth, seconds ago an angry line, softened. His imposing six foot frame seemed to shrink down. He took one cautious step forward and then, thinking better of it, stepped back. “Are you all right?” he asked.
The sobs began to break, the swells rolling in with less force, less rapidity and Ashley was able to pull herself together. Those agonizing thoughts about misspent youth and bleak futures wisped away to their hiding places within the folds of her brain. Embarrassment rose, trumping all else.
“I’m fine. Sorry,” she managed through drying sniffles. Crimson heat overtook her skin. “I’m fine.”
Montgomery just sort of stood there for a moment. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with the situation. He didn’t seem like the confrontational type. It was a good thing her and Henry hadn’t confronted him at the mall. Henry would have smelled the fear and exploited the hell out it. He would have verbally destroyed Montgomery and then if provoked enough, moved in to beat him down. Ashley found Henry’s temper and volatile aggression equal parts sexy and repulsive. He was a manly man, a real man who wasn’t afraid to fight for what he believed in (no matter how stupid or petty it was). Strength, confidence, aggression. But at the same time he was a bit of a meathead and got into some unnecessary trouble because of it. Montgomery on the other hand, first impressions any how, seemed a lot more reserved.
As Fate Would Have It Page 10