He picked it up, set it back on the seat, and swore again. Screw it. He couldn't risk another of Eston's attacks, so he snatched the cat up and opened the door. But as he set his foot on the blacktop, he felt like an absolute idiot. He turned back and froze, paralyzed with indecision.
His cell phone trilled. The screen on the front read: Smartlnk Rscrs.
He only hesitated for a second, then flipped it open. "This is Ian," he said.
"Ian." The voice was cool and feminine. "This is Barb Shantic at Smartlink."
Justin's boss. Son of a bitch.
"I need you to come in immediately so we can speak in person. When will you be here?"
Her directness put him off balance. "I... can't, I won't be in today."
"I need you to come in immediately," she repeated.
"Well, that won't be possible," he rejoined, incensed at her tone. "If I'm fired, just tell me."
"I've spoken with Justin Keplin about your recent performance. There are some matters we need to discuss in person."
"I won't be in today," he said again, but his voice held a slight tremor. Why wasn't she just firing him? What he'd done to Justin could be considered blackmail. Did she know?
"You are scheduled to work today, and you have no personal time remaining. What time will you be in?"
"I told you, I won't," he snapped. "I have a family emergency that needs to be taken care of right now."
"Then your employment is terminated, effective immediately." She sounded as smug as Sheila.
"Fuck you," he said, and snapped the phone closed.
He left the cat in the car.
127
A bell over the door jingled as Ian walked in. A skinny kid in jeans and a simple striped shirt glanced up at him from behind the counter. "What's goin' on?" he said.
"Hey," Ian answered. "I'm looking for Ben. Is he around?"
"Oh, he's in the garage," the kid said. "You can head in there." He jerked a thumb toward the door, and Ian did as he suggested.
The sides of the garage burgeoned with tools and toolboxes, cardboard boxes filled with bottles of engine oil, dirty rags. Two of the stalls were empty; a rusted blue '94 Civic was hoisted atop the last one. Ian heard the distinctive whining of a power screwdriver.
"Is Ben here?" he called, trying to be heard over the din.
An older man in a jumpsuit glanced back from a computer, nestled on a counter between two hubcaps. He had a thin line of a mouth, crow's feet, and black hair shot through with grey. "Yeah!" he shouted. "Can I help you?"
Ian stepped toward him and offered his hand. "I'm Ian Jones, with the Shakopee Sentinel."
Ben shook his hand. "With The Sentinel, huh? Don't see that everyday."
"Right." Ian tried a smile, not sure how to respond, but it faltered. "Well, I'm doing a story on Leroy Eston, the man who killed that Colmes boy earlier this year, and I'd heard he worked here for awhile." He was amazed at how easily the lies rolled off his tongue. "Is that right?"
Ben's gaze darkened. "Yeah, that's right," he said. "Maybe four years ago. What do you need to know?"
Ian fought to keep his cool. Did he have a girlfriend? he wanted to ask. Do you know anyone named Kelly? But the questions were too pointed, too incongruous. He forced himself to wait.
"How well did you know him?"
Ben snorted. "Not well enough, apparently. He was quiet. Had a hell of a temper. I never would've thought he'd do something like that, though." He shook his head. "Fucking crazy. Pardon my french."
"A temper?" Ian asked. "Why do you say that?"
"Oh, you know." Ben waved the question off, then continued, "He'd throw tools if he got pissed about anything. Scream and curse and carry on. I had to ban him from talking to customers because if they had any questions he'd get real nasty with 'em. One day he and I had a little conversation about his paycheck and he ended up breaking the window on a customer's car." He paused expectantly.
"Wow," Ian said, a bit late. "So how long was he here?"
"Workin' here?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, god - six weeks? Not even? I fired him after that thing with the window. Knew he was no good." He shook his head. "But still, you never expect..."
Ian nodded. "Did he ever talk about his home life, or his friends, or -"
"No, no, nothin' like that. Not that I heard, anyway. He always seemed like the kind to get his shift done and get the hell out of here."
Ian couldn't help himself. "He never mentioned a girlfriend, or a sister? Maybe someone named Kelly?"
Ben paused, sneered in concentration for a second, and finally shook his head. "No. Sorry. Not that I remember. That someone he knew?"
Ian shrugged. "I don't know - just a name that showed up in my notes. Probably nothing.
"Thanks for your time."
128
It was the same at the next place, and the third was just a gas station: the garage had closed down the year before, and the clerk behind the counter had only been working there a few months. Ian scratched them off his list, which eliminated all his leads in Shakopee, so he got on 13 and headed in to Prior Lake.
Shop and Shop was by far the most upscale place Eston had worked; attached to the fading remnants of an old strip mall, it boasted that its patrons could shop while they waited for their car to get done. The sign proclaiming this opportunity appeared to have been propped in the front window for at least ten years, the white lettering nearly absorbed into the fading green around it. But inside, at least, it looked relatively fresh and well-kept: clean floors, a leather waiting couch (but who would want to sit on it, when they could go shopping?), and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite a broad, floor-to-ceiling window.
A young woman who couldn't have been much older than Sheila was on the phone behind the counter, wearing a name tag that said Wendy. She gave Ian a smile and a hand signal - One second, almost done here.
As Wendy negotiated an appointment time with the person on the phone, Ian noticed the clock on the wall behind her. It was almost noon. He'd pissed away another day at work, incurred some kind of penalty that sounded as if it would not only cost him his livelihood, but maybe a day in court as well, and he'd found nothing. The pendulum between fierce, driving mania and utter despondence began to swing away again, stealing his anger from this morning and his certainty that he was doing what Alex wanted. He wondered if he would ever be able to explain this to anyone. He wondered if he would ever see Alex again. He wondered if his wife was okay.
His mind snagged on this last thought, and he considered calling her. But the receptionist finished her call just then, smiled brightly at him, and asked what he needed.
"I need to find Kelly," he said. He hadn't meant to be so blunt, but when he reached inside for the story he'd been telling up until this point, he found nothing but surrender. "I heard she worked here."
"Kelly Baker?" Wendy asked.
"I -" Ian started, thrown off balance. "Yes, right, Kelly Baker."
"Sure, she's in the garage - are you a friend, or...?"
"I - no, I just - my name is Ian Smith, I was just hoping to speak with her for a few minutes." Was Smith the right pseudonym? His heart was pounding. She's here. Jesus Christ, she's here. His gun was in the car.
"Oh, okay." Wendy's smile faltered. "Do you know her...?"
"No, I -" Ian rolled his eyes, managed a nervous smile. "I'm sorry. I've just had a lot of interviews this morning and I get a little flaky when I skip breakfast. I'm from the Shakopee Sentinel. I just wanted to speak with her for a few minutes about -" He couldn't say Eston, not now. What if it tipped her off? "We're doing a piece on the Shop and Shop."
"Oh!" Wendy seemed pleased to hear this. "You want to talk to Doug, then. He's the owner."
"Oh, no. No. Ah - Kelly contacted us. She requested the piece. If you don't mind I'd just like to talk to her first."
"Oh," Wendy said again. She looked confused.
"It'll only take a few minutes," Ian pressed, and walke
d past the counter to the shop door. He tried a smile, to put her at ease, but couldn't make it stick. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to wait, no matter what she said. "Thanks," he said, and pushed through the door.
There were eight stalls in this garage, and a line of computer stations set up against one wall. At the nearest station, a nondescript, twiggy woman with limp, dark hair was hunched over a printout, reviewing it with a customer. She tapped and circled, her lips moving but inaudible over the clamor. Her nametag said Kelly.
Ian's heart clawed into his throat; a roar or scream danced on his tongue. His gun was in the car, but he could go back and get it. Several stalls had open garage doors - he could get the gun, walk right through one of those, march up to her and make the six o'clock news.
She grabbed him. He stared at her arms, at her mouth forming silent words, at her height and her dull, flaccid hair. She carried him like a baby. She shared him with Eston.
He imagined stalking up to the counter. This is for Alex, you bitch. The gun would take her by surprise. He would have it to her forehead before she could react.
You might've dodged the cops, but I'm his dad. Do you fucking understand me? I am his fucking dad.
He saw three gunshots. The first caught her in the forehead and yanked her head back, the second blasted through her open, screaming mouth and out her cheek, splattering the wall behind her with blood and flesh, and the third caught her in the neck, turning her scream into an impotent gurgle. She fell back against the wall, her hands scrabbling toward her face, as the first customer began to scream. One of the mechanics lunged into him, knocked the gun from his hand and smashed his head against the concrete, but it didn't matter. He had fucked her up. She hadn't gotten away. As the guy twisted his arms back, shouting for someone to help, grab his legs, call the police, all Ian would do is laugh. Or sob.
Kelly finished with the customer, and her phone rang. She picked it up, her lips still churning enigmas.
Go! Get to the car! Now!
And that night Alina would see his face on the news, on the internet; the next day the Star Tribune would have him on the front page, and he would look insane. He'd never see his wife again, never meet his second child.
Get the fucking gun!
Kelly's eyes locked on him, the phone still cradled to her ear. She nodded. Her mouth formed the word, "Okay."
"Mr. Smith?" she shouted, loudly enough to be heard, and beckoned Ian her way.
Fuck all that! Get the gun! Do what you fucking came here for! SHE KIDNAPPED YOUR SON!
"Mr. Smith?" she repeated when he didn't move. She stepped toward him, holding out her hand; when he refused it, her brow tightened. "Wendy told me you were looking for me. I'm Kelly Baker?"
He lunged forward, grabbed her around the neck and bore her to the ground. Choked until her face turned blue, then black. Roared and screamed, smashed her face with his forehead.
Except he didn't.
"Did you...?" Ian started, but he had no idea how to finish that sentence. "Did you... was there a Leroy Eston that worked here?"
Her face soured immediately. She inched backward, as if the very mention of the man's name made Ian repulsive.
"There was," she said. "I thought this was about some kind of publicity piece?"
"Did you..." he started again. He couldn't keep those two words off his tongue. "Were you two friends?"
She narrowed her eyes. "What does that - ? God, no. The man was disgusting."
She's lying. You're going to let her lie her way out of this?
But she didn't seem to be lying. Her tight shoulders, her slitted eyes - every muscle in her body seemed to convey loathing.
He got a sudden image of a late night at the garage. Eston tried to force himself on her, and she screamed, and kicked him, and got away. He had no idea if it was real or not, but it felt right.
He couldn't meet her eyes. He looked past them, to the station behind her, and saw a picture taped to the side of the monitor. Kelly was pushing a little girl in a swing, both of them grinning hugely.
She has a daughter.
No one with a daughter could have done it. No one.
"Mr. Smith?" she asked. "If you have questions about Leroy, you should probably talk to Doug. He's -"
"No," Ian said. "No, that's okay." His knees quivered. As he turned away they nearly spilled him to the floor. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder, and fled.
129
He drove two blocks and pulled over, his hands shaking and his stomach in revolt.
She has a daughter!
Jesus Christ, she has a daughter! You could have made an orphan!
What the fuck are you doing out here?
On the passenger seat, Mowsalot crouched, grinning.
Ian glanced at the rearview mirror, panting and sweating, on the verge of hyperventilation. He expected to see the police, but there was nothing.
You could have killed an innocent woman! You were ready to do it! Jesus Christ, Ian!
He started to reach for the gun, thinking to throw it into the street, but his hands were quivering too hard to get a grip on the glove compartment latch.
What the fuck are you doing? he demanded of himself again, but there was no answer. Nothing made any sense.
He was driving around Prior Lake, a city he had never visited before in his life, with a gun in the glove box, looking for someone to kill. That's what he was doing.
"Alex!" he called, and craned his head to look in the rear seats. "Alex! Where are you?" There were Burger King bags and old pop cans on the floor, discarded junk mail scattered across the seats. No car seat. No smiling little boy, no blue eyes.
"Alex!" The demand scraped from Ian's throat in a choking wheeze. "Answer me! Where the hell are you?"
His eyes darted to the passenger seat, and again to the rear. Nothing.
"Dammit, Alex, please! I am here because of you! You sent me here! It was hard enough losing you, but you are the one who came back, made me go through all this... shit! Now you fucking tell me! Enough fucking around! Tell me what I'm doing here!"
He waited for maybe half a second.
"God dammit, Alex, I almost killed a woman! I almost killed a little girl's mom!"
A man had stepped out of a little cafe. He peered towards Ian's car, brows knitted, and Ian slapped his mouth shut.
Shut up. Shut up. He's not coming. People can see you.
Go home. Just go home.
He put the car in gear and peeled away, shooting up to fifty miles per hour on the little, urban street. He hardly slowed down for the next turn. His tires squealed as he angled around, heading back toward 13. The speed helped to calm him, to give him something else to focus on.
Get home. It's over. He's gone. Go home.
13 north was just ahead, and he could take it back to Hopkins. The last place Eston had worked was in New Prague, though, and that was south.
Ian turned south.
130
This time, he skipped the front desk and walked straight in through the garage. He saw a pair of guys talking in the corner and said, "Hey, is Curtis here?"
One of them, a greying, reed-thin man who was easily in his early sixties, pointed a greasy finger toward the back corner. Ian followed his gesture and saw a large, balding man behind a desk. "Thanks."
Ian's heart began thrumming nervously as he walked to the back of the room, memories of his encounter with Kelly Baker flashing in his mind. He tried to get around them by focusing on the man sitting at the desk: middle-aged, fat, with a flushed red face and fingers like sausages. How do you get that fat working in a garage? he wondered. Curtis must have been a manager, sitting in a chair, for a long time.
"Curtis?" Ian asked, and the larger man blew out a breath.
"Yeah."
"Hi, my name is Ian Jones." Ian held out a hand; Curtis took it. "I'm with the Shakopee Sentinel. Could I talk to you for just a few minutes?"
Curtis sighed again, his eyes squinting toward the monitor on
his desk. "I'm really kind of busy here, Mr. Jones. Could you - ?"
"Five minutes. I swear. I would come back another time, but my schedule has me out of town for the next two weeks."
Curtis gave him a look that said, What does that have to do with me?
"I'm doing a story on Leroy Eston, the man who kidnapped Alex Colmes earlier this year. They found him up in Shakopee, by O'Dowd?"
The other man's face changed from mild affront to caution. "Shit," he said. "That was five years ago Leroy worked here. I didn't know anything about him."
"But you remember him, then?"
Curtis scoffed. "Barely. He was an asshole, that's about all I remember. Always late. Always getting into fights with the other guys. I wasn't surprised at all to hear about what happened. That guy was a real piece of shit. Ten miles of bad road."
"Yeah," Ian said. "Listen, I'm actually trying to find out if there was a woman he would hang around with - a girlfriend, or a sister, maybe? Someone named Kelly?"
"Kelly?" Curtis barked, as if the name were preposterous. "No, I don't remember anything like that."
This was the last place on Ian's list. Curtis' denial hit him like a punch to the gut. He bit his lip, trying not to scream or cry. "Are you sure?" he asked, feeling like a beggar.
"Yeah, I - Ed! Hey, Ed!" He threw out an imperious arm, beckoned for the older man Ian had seen earlier.
Ed walked over; he had remarkable posture and speed for a man of his age. "Yeah, boss," he said flatly.
"You remember Leroy Eston?"
Ed's eyes smoldered. "'Course I remember Leroy Eston."
"You remember if he had a girlfriend, or anything?"
"Or a sister?" Ian put in.
Ed barked a humorless laugh. "A girlfriend? That guy?"
Curtis shook his head. "That's what I said, too." He looked back to Ian. "Sorry. If you don't mind, I really have to get back to -"
"Someone named Kelly," Ian pressed. "Anything, a picture, or someone he might have just mentioned once -"
"Look," Curtis said, at the same time Ed answered, "Kelly. You talking about that Kelton guy?"
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