Last Girl Gone

by J. G. Hetherton

  Diane Chambers lumbered around the corner from the hall and lowered herself into the oversized kitchen chair. Laura didn’t bother looking at her. “How long have you been listening in?”

  “Listening in? Me? I was in the hall and just happened to overhear you talking with that man everyone says you’re fucking.”

  Laura squeezed her eyes shut. “Can you even hear yourself? Is this how a mother talks to her daughter?”

  “When the daughter’s in need of a good smack upside the head for being a little whore, that’s exactly how a mother talks. What kind of mother would I be if I let this kind of behavior go unchecked?”

  “So it’s for my own good? Bullshit.”

  Her mother put a hand to her chest, offended at the implication her motives could be anything less than righteous. “Of course! I do it out of love, my dear. Out of pure, unadulterated love.”

  Laura felt like she wanted to throw up.

  “The big city tainted you,” Diane said.

  She looked away again, refusing to look her mother in the eye.

  “But I can help you wash off the stench. Help you find a good man, start a nice family. I have experience in all that, you know.”

  “Frank is a good man. I don’t—”

  “I don’t doubt he is, my dear, but you’ll never win him over like that. Men require a soft touch. They like a woman who agrees with him, who doesn’t rock the boat or get fresh. They want obedience.”

  Laura leaned over the sink and looked out the window, agog at her mother’s bizarre change of gears. “First you call me a whore for seeing a man, then you want to give me advice on how to hang on to him? Don’t you see a contradiction there?”

  Her mother’s brow crinkled in genuine confusion. “You’re already screwing him, aren’t you? Marrying him is just about the only way to turn it respectable. You better dig your claws deep into this one, Laura. The way people talk about you, no other man is going to want you. No one will touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

  How could she be sweating and yet feel so cold? An intense freeze grew out of her stomach, spreading up across her chest and down through her legs. Her knees wobbled. The walls seemed a foot closer than they had before.

  “I have to get out of here,” she said to herself.

  “What? Speak up!”

  “I have to go,” she said, and snatched the car keys off the counter on her way out the door.

  * * *

  Frank jerked the door of his apartment open as though he’d been expecting someone to break it down. His uniform was half missing: he still had on the pants and the gun belt, but behind him was his uniform shirt strewn across the floor, badge and all. She could see one shoe sitting on the coffee table.

  “It’s you,” he said, and backed away into the apartment.

  “Uh, sure is,” she said. His eyes seemed vacant. “Remember, you ordered me to come see you? Or else?” She deepened her voice for the last two words, trying for comedic effect.

  “Right,” he said, and slid down onto the couch.

  “Frank, are you okay?”

  He looked up, his eyes snapping into focus for the first time, the pupils tearing into her. “I’m a pretty fucking far distance from okay.”

  “Yeah, you look terrible.”

  He shook his head. “I’m gonna look a lot worse unless you do something.”

  She sat on the couch next to him. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you if I can.”

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”

  She threw up her hands. “Obviously you think I know what’s going on here. Look at me—I don’t have the slightest fucking idea.” She mirrored his language back at him. “So just forget about the dramatics and tell me.”

  He took her face in his hands.

  She tried to pull back, but he squeezed his hands together tight.

  “You didn’t write an article for the Gazette? ‘The Return of the Kid’?”

  Shit.

  Somehow he had seen it already. The only explanation was that Bass Herman had reached out to Sheriff McKinney for comment, which in turn had started this ball of shit rolling downhill. She hadn’t intended for him to find out this way.

  “Let go of me,” she said.

  He didn’t move, then looked down at his hands as though seeing them for the first time. He jerked them back down into his lap. “Sorry,” he said, his voice shaking.

  “I did write an article for the Gazette. That’s my job.”

  “Well, it’s got stuff we talked about in it, Laura. Stuff about the investigation.”

  “Did they let you read it?”

  He nodded.

  “So you know there are plenty of things in that story we didn’t talk about, things you never breathed a word of. You’re not the source, Frank.”

  His eyes squished shut so hard it looked like he might hurt himself. “But they think I’m the source, Laura. They think it’s me.”

  “So tell them you’re not.”

  He laughed, a sharp bark. “Everyone knows we’re sleeping together. Exactly how much do you think my denial is worth?”

  “You’re an honest guy. Everyone trusts you.”

  “You’re damn right. But in my line of work you learn that people tell lies, that nine times out of ten a situation is exactly what it looks like, and this looks bad, Laura.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. McKinney knows you, your fellow deputies know you. After all those years, if they turn on you—I don’t know, it’s an injustice. But that’s between you and them. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  He shot to his feet. “It’s got everything to do with you!” he roared, and for a second she thought he would hit her. Instead he just loomed over her, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, hands balled into fists.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “but it doesn’t.”

  “You wrote the story, and it’s going to end my career. You don’t see any cause and effect there?”

  “I was just doing my job. I wouldn’t go back and change it even if I could.”

  “Come with me.” He held out a hand.

  “You’re not even dressed.”

  He started pulling on his shoes. “Come with me,” he repeated.

  “Where?”

  “To the station. Tell McKinney I’m not the source. You can still clear all this up.”

  “No.”

  He stopped moving, fingers on the laces. “Why won’t you help me?”

  “I will not answer any questions about a source. That means I will never confirm a source, and I’ll never deny one either.”

  “If you care even a little for me—help me.”

  She shook her head.

  The house phone rang. Frank snatched it up, muttered into the receiver, then tossed it to her.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  Laura wrinkled her nose in confusion.

  “Go ahead, take it,” he snarled, “I’m sure it’s real important. In fact, just lock the door on your way out.” He darted into the hall and slammed the door behind him.

  Laura lifted the receiver to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ve been following you,” the caller said.

  It was a man’s voice, a rich baritone. There was a hint of an accent, but Laura couldn’t place it. It had a lilt, a slight extension of the vowel sounds that made it sound almost Caribbean.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know it’s you, Laura. I’d recognize your voice anywhere.”

  He paused, and she listened to the thick, measured breathing on the other end of the line.

  “I only wish we could speak in person.”

  “How are we speaking at all? How—”

  “Did I know to find you there at Deputy Stuart’s home?” He cut her off, chuckling. “As I said, I’ve been following you. I was referring to your career the first time I said it—I do believe I’ve read everything you’ve ever written—but it’s just as t
rue if you want to be literal-minded.”

  Laura said nothing.

  “I’ve been tracing your progress, what little of it you’ve made. Trailing behind you as you skitter from place to place.”

  “This is one of those ‘get out of town while you still can’ calls, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” The voice sounded almost offended. “I’d hate to see you leave. We haven’t yet had the chance to meet.”

  “You’re right. Maybe we should get introductions out of the way. You know my name, but I didn’t catch yours.”

  The caller said nothing. She could hear that he was still there, breathing into the receiver. The sound of his breath traveled down the line and funneled into her ear, transformed by the trip. It had a slight electronic tinge, a robot bellows hissing at her.

  “Your name?” she said again.

  “You know my name.”

  “That’s not how phone calls work. People usually introduce themselves.”

  “Of course, and I’m not usually so rude. But our present circumstances demand certain precautions. I want to meet you, Laura, really I do. But not until the time is right.”

  “Okay,” she said, dropping onto the couch, phone in her lap, “you don’t want to meet me, you don’t want to tell me your name. Tell me this, why shouldn’t I just hang up?”

  “You could do that. You could end the call, but it won’t break the connection.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Another pause, more heavy breathing. Then he said, “That’s a lovely blouse you’re wearing, so white and sheer. When you stand by the window, I can almost see the sunlight peeking through.”

  Laura shot up from the couch as though hit with an electric shock, jogged to the window, looked down at the street.

  No one there. A passing car never paused. The building opposite featured an array of windows. Most of them were covered by blinds. The uncovered ones opened into a vast interior darkness. She scanned them one by one, searching for signs of movement.

  Nothing.

  She lifted the phone back to her ear. “You can see me?”

  “I’m watching you,” he said, and there was a kind of glee in his voice, a childlike excitement. “I’m watching you right now.”

  Laura frowned. “No need to be so creepy.”

  “Ah, you think I’m playing a game.”

  “What else would you call it?”

  He paused, thoughtful. “More like a work of art.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is truly wonderful. I never get to share this side of things with anyone.” He stretched the last word into two. “I’m so glad I chose you.”

  “Chose me.”

  “You’re quite right—we chose each other, didn’t we?”

  The street below was nothing but stillness. Even the cars had stopped driving past.

  “Look, I don’t have time to talk to nut jobs, whether they’re following me or not. I’m hanging up.”

  “No,” he said, “you’re not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you know who I am.”

  She cradled the receiver between her head and shoulder, rubbing her hands together trying to get the circulation moving. Her fingertips had suddenly gone numb.

  “I don’t.”

  “We almost met, you and I.”

  “Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  He chuckled again. “And a sense of humor too! What a catch. I though you looked beautiful in the starlight. That flashlight ruined your night vision and you nearly ran into me. You looked me right in the eye. Nose to nose, feet away. I thought it was all over right then and there. I thought I’d have to squeeze the life out of you. But you had this superbly blank look on your face, and instantly and with perfect clarity, I understood that I was invisible.” He giggled. “After that, the hardest part was trying not to laugh.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Friday night, up on the ridge,” he said simply. “You found my little hiding spot.”

  Time seemed to stand still; everything dropped away. Through it all she could hear just two things: the increasing rhythm of her heart and the caller’s perfectly even breathing.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  She said nothing.

  “I could have gotten your tongue, you know. Could have pried it out of your mouth like a hook from a fish’s cheek.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Laura said, finding her voice again.

  “Because that would have been the end of us. Instead of the beginning.”

  “Us,” she repeated.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, I get the message, you can hurt me if you want.”

  “Oh, that’s a given. Small town, open fields—where can you run? But I meant my actual message. Has it arrived yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Ah,” he said.

  He really can see me, she thought.

  “Well, my courier must be running a little slow today. No matter, I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”

  “I’m sure,” she said, and the words seemed to come from somewhere outside her. His voice suddenly repulsed her. It was a very pleasant voice on its own, but she knew it was manufactured by a tongue, a tongue lodged in a head, a head connected to a body that in turn led to arms, arms that ended in hands, the same hands that had throttled the life out of a ten-year-old girl.

  The line between those hands and her own ear burned brightly in her mind. Her stomach knotted. Bile clawed its way into her throat.

  “The more of your work I read, Laura, the more I like you. Do you know why I like it so much?”

  She shook her head again.

  That seemed enough for him. “It’s the strain of empathy that runs through all your writing. Even when you cover the worst humanity has to offer, you reach out from a place of understanding. At the end of your articles, I always feel better about myself.”

  “You’d know about the worst.” She spit the words like acid.

  “I’m not what you think I am, Laura.” The glee was back in his voice. “So many surprises. I can’t wait to see your face.”

  “Why wait?” she said, the words out before she could stop herself.

  “And brave,” he said, almost to himself. “Just this morning I was rereading a story you did for the Globe a few years ago, that terrible business about the warehouse with the boys who were taken.”

  “Catching up on some of your colleagues?”

  “I would never abuse a child, Laura.” He said it with absolute moral indignation, the irony lost on him completely. “Even in that museum of horrors, you didn’t portray them as monsters. As men with dirty souls, to be sure, but men just the same. I wonder, do you see me that way?”

  “I haven’t seen you at all.”

  “You will,” he whispered.

  “If you think—”

  The dial tone cut her off. He was gone. She scanned the street one more time, then replaced the receiver and left the apartment, locking the door on her way out.

  CHAPTER

  15

  SOMEONE WAS WATCHING her.

  Down at street level, eyes were all she could feel. Around every corner, behind every curtain, she could feel them watching her as she hurried to the Dart.

  “Laura!”

  She jumped a foot in the air, whirled around, keys splayed out between her fingers, ready to maim the first person who touched her.

  “Laura, you okay?”

  The voice was coming from a black Tahoe stopped in the middle of King Street. Timinski stared at her from the driver’s seat, his thick eyebrows raised an inch up his forehead.

  “Laura?”

  She let herself breathe again. “Yes, I’m fine. You just surprised me.”

  “Got a few minutes?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He gave her the confused look again. “Sure you do. Feel free to take off. Just know you�
��ll be missing out on something.”

  She shook herself, trying to get rid of the slimy, unclean feeling the phone call had rubbed off on her, and climbed into the passenger seat.

  Timinski kept his gaze trained on her the whole time. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked once she was settled.

  Most of her brain screamed out to tell him exactly what had just happened. Even without real proof, her gut told her the call had been anything but a prank. The mysterious caller had been him, the Kid, the man they were all hunting, and Timinski was the most experienced hunter in a hundred miles.

  And he’ll get him, a voice whispered, from somewhere deep down inside.

  He’ll get him, Laura repeated to herself. She had no illusions. This partnership between them was a means to an end. Timinski wanted to catch the Kid. Once he did that, the flow of information would stop, and she would lose her most valuable source.

  “I’m good,” she said finally. “Just a little preoccupied.”

  “Well, buckle up.”

  “My car.” She pointed to it.

  “Nice ride,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you back when we’re done.”

  * * *

  She hadn’t thought it possible, but the interior of his motel room was even uglier. At least the outside of Elias Quant’s place could be dismissed as utilitarian. Inside it seemed to have been decorated by an insane person. The bed was round, occupying the very center of the room; the curtains were made of orange crushed velvet; the shag carpet looked ready to shed at any moment. Pastel colors and different wallpaper patterns battled against each other, her eyes the only casualty.

  “It looks like the seventies threw up in here.”

  He grinned. “Oh, it gets better. The toilet stinks like old septic and the air-conditioning is broken.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He shook his head.

  “So let’s go back to the diner. I know you federal guys don’t get much of a per diem”—she took a step into the room, trying not to touch anything—“but considering the circumstances, I’m buying.”

  “Afraid we need the privacy. Here, pull up a chair.”

  The small breakfast table and two wooden chairs looked clean enough. She lowered herself gingerly into the nearest seat.

  Timinski sat across from her, producing a file folder and a yellow legal pad from the inside pocket of his briefcase.