Castle Danger--The Mental States

by Anthony Neil Smith

  My nerves were raw, raw, raw. I took a shower, stood under the soothing water for nearly an hour. I took three nervous shits, even though I had hardly eaten anything. Felt a bit like I had the flu — goosebumps, chills, wooziness.

  And then, it all went away. Weird. About twenty minutes before I left, I finished my makeup, padded my bra, checked the mirror for any mistakes … and took an honest look at myself. I had decided against the blonde ‘Hannah’ wig, had instead shampooed and conditioned and brushed and sprayed and styled my own hair. The result, well, for better or worse, this was probably the first time the woman in the mirror was me. Not a disguise, not a role to play. That was me.

  I smiled. Big one. More giggles. That was how I looked when I giggled? A faint blush deepened the rouge on my cheeks. Nice red. Happy.

  I was feeling it. And all thanks to Tennyson taking a chance.

  Out the door. Into a cab.

  Tennyson was an absolute gentleman. He was waiting outside Spoon and Stable, immaculately dressed in yet another suit that looked like it had been tailored in London and flown over on its own private jet. Chalk stripe, gray with a hint of lavender. The tie, just as masterful. He kissed my cheek, raising the hairs on my neck, hooked my arm and took me inside, where we were treated like VIPs. The place was gleaming — white-painted wood and brick against stainless steel stoves, granite bar top, and small, simple tables. We were led to a booth in the back, out of the way. You couldn’t tell it was there unless you were looking for it. Not a promising start to the night.

  Tennyson waited for me to slide into the curved booth first. Old school manners. Could be a good omen, could be a bad one. I was trying — and failing — not to overanalyze his every move.

  Before the waiter came, I took a look around the restaurant, caught a few couples whispering behind their hands while looking my way, some of the staff peeking from behind a corner, eyes wide. Like I wasn’t already worried I was a bit of a freak show. No matter how feminine I tried to look, I was still obviously a boy in a dress. It dawned on me — maybe Tennyson did want the woman I was becoming to have a more visible place at his side on the campaign trail, but he was still ashamed to sit with me in the middle of a crowded dining room.

  I sighed, quietly, part of me mourning our stillborn romance, another part not wanting to break out of my new found gender role by making a fuss about it. Then the waiter was there and Tennyson ordered local craft beer. I just wanted water.

  He ordered duck. I ordered gnocchi.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He held out his hand. “Tennyson Washington.”

  I took it. “Hannah.”

  “Just Hannah?”

  “For now.”

  He had shaved yesterday’s stubble, looked positively fresh-faced. If he was tired after last night, I couldn’t see it in his eyes. But he was playing this as if we’d never met. Interesting. I wondered how he would react if I picked up where we left off in the parking garage the night before. Would he run with it? Would he stop me? Would that be the end of it?

  Instead, I played along. “So, did you have a big night last night?”

  He shook his head. “Every night is a big night on the campaign trail. Though some are bigger than others.”

  “And last night?”

  Eye to eye. “Wasn’t the best, but I’ll manage. How about you?”

  Testing: “I probably missed more than I know. I was out looking for a friend of mine who had gotten into a little trouble.”

  He grinned. Man, that grin would be the end of me. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

  Sigh.

  A wink like a full stop. Change of topic. “But I want to hear about you, Hannah. About who you really are. Tell me, please. Don’t be shy.”

  “You’ve caught me off-guard.”

  “I don’t believe that. Not when you come in here looking like that.” Eyes roving. “No, you’re beautiful, cleaned up like this. You are a work of art.”

  Another sigh. “Let’s … let’s not—”

  “Love your hair.”

  Goddamn it, the man was all cheese.

  “What’s the play here? Buttering me up?”

  Tennyson smiled. “The Senator is wrong about you.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve got to be out front. You’ve got to stop hiding.”

  As expected. I’d known it was coming, but it had really felt like something else. Like, I don’t know. I didn’t know how I was supposed to react to a man flirting with me. I was sure that’s what it was. So sure. I’d gotten my hopes up. So, while I sat there, seemingly listening to him pontificate about the importance of ‘Hannah’ working for the campaign, a change of plan he tried to sell me by extolling the supposed virtues of just doing it without telling Andrew — ask forgiveness rather than permission —, I was thinking about something else entirely.

  I was imagining Tennyson and me in a men’s room stall, me on my knees in front of him, dress hiked. He was in my mouth. I’d never done that before. His palm, soft on top of my head. He gripped tighter the closer he got. A moan like the gospel blues.

  His phone brought me back to the table. It was buzzing in his inside pocket. A slick movement, a quick glance at the screen. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

  I nodded and slipped out the other side of the booth. “Girl’s room. I’ll be right back.”

  While I calmed myself in the ladies’ room (no curious glances there) — checking the makeup that made me think of young David Bowie videos, just like my association of Paul Stanley when I met Paula for the first time — Joel emailed me a video clip. No message along with it.

  So I watched.

  I watched two men in identical sweatsuits and dark caps, careful to keep their faces from the camera, pull Dylan’s car into that spot in the Mall garage, get out, get some bags of partially thawed blood from the trunk, and dump the bags into the front seats. About six quart bags, filled to bursting. When they were done, they walked down the ramp until they were out of the picture.

  I called Joel, my voice quiet. No matter how much I practiced, I always sounded like a man, and I didn’t want anyone freaking out on me in the rest room, not with Tennyson sitting outside. “Did Thorn show you that?”

  “Him? I’ve got my own sources. He sure as hell hasn’t said anything, but he’s had to’ve seen it.”

  “You’re supposed to stay out of it. We’re supposed to stay out of it.”

  “The more eyes on it, the quicker we find him.”

  “You’re just bored, aren’t you?”

  “How’s your date going?”

  I looked around. A couple of women in stalls, talking on their own phones, seemingly not paying attention to me. That was good. Back to the mirror. Clear-eyed, coming out of the daze Tennyson had put me in. Nice steady breath.

  Replayed the clip in my mind. “I can’t tell if either one was Dylan.”

  “Me neither.”

  “So … got anything else?”

  “Elevator footage. Traced their walk to a car waiting to pick them up. Got that car’s plates, too.”

  “Jesus! Did you hack the cops?” Too loud. A woman who’d just come out of a stall raised an eyebrow and gave me a long glance. I shrugged and slipped out of the restroom, leaned against the wall between the men’s and women’s.

  “Got some friends, you know how it is.”

  “If you know, then the cops know, which means Thorn knows.” And Tennyson.

  “Doesn’t mean they’ve found the car yet.”

  “You really are bored.”

  “What if I told you I’m looking at it right now?”

  I was about to say “Bullshit” when my phone dinged. New text message. From Joel, of course. A photo of that exact car. Fuck me.

  Adrenaline. Could feel it through the phone, through the air, traveling from tower to my hand. After all this time, Joel wanted to go ‘hunting’ with me again? Did it have to be right now?

  “Right now?”

  “N
o. Some time in the new year, if you can squeeze it in. Of course now.”

  “Joel … I can’t. It’s complicated.”

  “I thought Dylan was your friend.”

  Closed my eyes. Thought it through. Thought about Dylan. But then my mind strayed back to Tennyson, to what I’d just felt as he sang my praises, how much I wanted his words to be true, how much I wished he’d meant them personally. How much I wanted our flirtation to go on. How much, well, how much more I wanted from him.

  “I’ve got to go. Call me tomorrow.” I punched off before he could answer, put it on silent. Not even on vibrate, just out and out silent. Sorry, but … I wasn’t a cop anymore. I’d found what I was looking for when the Chief admitted to us what he’d done to the real Hannah. I wasn’t looking for a new mystery. No more late nights in parking garages, being questioned by cops who had been hunting me down only a couple of months earlier. No siree!

  I stepped back out into the dining room and tried to sashay to our table. Our meals were waiting for us, papered and foiled. Tennyson was standing, texting, and when he looked up, I knew things were fucked.

  “Sorry, something’s come up.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “It’s exactly like that.” The electricity I’d been feeling seemed to have blown a fuse. Get it together, girl.

  He stepped closer, hand on my lower back. “It’s not like that. You know how it is. Something’s come up. You’d do the same to me if the Senator called.”

  Maybe I would. But that was the problem. It was the best excuse in the world. I couldn’t blame him for it. I could only blame myself for being so — even now it hurts to say it — easy.

  He seemed to read my mind. “Listen, take the food home with you, and I’ll call you there later.”

  Rolled my eyes. “Sure, fine.”

  “Goddamn it, Hannah!” Whispered, but forceful. I couldn’t look at him. I wondered what would happen if I brought up the Mall cameras. Would he still lie to my face? I almost did. I truly did. But …

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Don’t be mad. I promise …”

  “Just go.” Managed a smile. “I’ll put this in the fridge until you’re ready.”

  A quick kiss on the cheek, and then he was gone, phone up to his ear before he got to the door.

  It took me a minute to recover, the waiter finally asking, “Anything I can do for you, miss?”

  I blinked, looked down at the table. Tennyson had dropped three hundreds on top of the bill. I started to pick up the food containers, then laughed at myself. Idiot. I turned to the waiter.

  “Just … just throw these away.”

  Then I called Joel.

  He picked me up outside the restaurant. I didn’t complain about his cigar, and he didn’t say a word about my dress or hair. It pissed me off until I imagined what sort of shit he might say if I invited a comment. Silence was better.

  He let me off at the townhouse for a change of clothes, but this time I stayed Hannah. My Hannah. Hans Marquette’s original version didn’t have my brown hair, my brown eyes, my youth. Come to think of it, we didn’t have much in common save for a shared trauma. Her name was starting to feel like more of an albatross around my neck than a stepping stone to a better me. I put on black jeans, a silver belt, a fitted black v-neck t-shirt, tight over my bra, and to offset the dark knight image, I slipped into a pair of Asics trainers that looked like a gay Jackson Pollock painting, all the colors of the rainbow. Thought about wearing the little .38 I’d bought, like the snubbie Robin had let me borrow, except black, rubber grips and hammerless. But no, that wasn’t me. Sure, I was pissed at Tennyson, and going hunting would help me forget, but the gun, that wasn’t me anymore.

  Cut to the chase: airport. Another parking garage, this one for rental cars. No getting out of here. There was the car, sectioned off in the cheapest rental car company zone. A Buick SUV. Tan.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Mm hm.”

  “And the cops don’t know?”

  “Maybe. I can’t say. I just know that the car’s still here, but our local law enforcement officers are nowhere to be found. They haven’t towed it, cordoned it off, or left a guard, so my guess is that I am one step ahead.”

  “How big of a step?”

  He smiled. Threw the Tahoe into park and turned it off. Got out, waited a second for me to follow.

  Like I said: back in the hunt.

  I started sweating as soon as we reached the airport doors. They still had the heat blasting between two sets of glass doors, creating a barrier of hot recycled air between the terminal, the garage, and all of the rental desks tucked away in the corner. In Minnesota, those heaters would stay on until May. Late May.

  A few people waiting in line with big luggage, stuffed purses, computer bags, crunched-up water bottles, wondering why it always took so long to get from line to desk to car, especially if you’ve already made a reservation. Joel wasn’t keen to wait. Of course, the cheap line was the longest — four customers waiting behind a family of three at the desk — but Joel barreled to the front with “Excuse me, urgent.” Flashed some sort of badge, presumably fake, and told the clerk, “Need to know who rented this Buick.” He read off the license plate, then handed me his phone. “Take a picture of the screen when he pulls it up, okay?”

  I rounded the desk. We had expected to overwhelm the guy, fight off some arguments, and then I’d end up looking for it myself. But the clerk surprised us.

  “Okey-dokey. Yeah, I was expecting you. I already printed it out.” He handed Joel a sheet of old-style printer paper, green-and-white lines, holes on the sides.

  Joel leaned against the desk and took a look. The couple with the baby exchanged open-mouthed Oh no you didn’t vibes, as if that was going to make us obey the country’s First Commandment of public spaces: thou shalt not jump the line. Noises of protest from the mother’s throat. But Joel didn’t move a muscle. Kept reading. Just muttered an official sounding remark to no one in particular: “Classified. Thanks for your patience.”

  It hit me then, the clerk expecting us. But not us. That meant …

  “We’ve got to go, man.”

  The clerk’s beaming smile faded by a few watts. “Wasn’t that what you asked for? Didn’t you need to talk with Jessie?”

  “Who’s Jessie?”

  “She … she was here … she checked out the car.”

  “We’ll send someone else for Jessie.” Joel waved the paper. “Thanks for this.”

  Walked away, me on his heels.

  I caught up and hissed in his ears, “Cops on the way.”

  “I got that. Didn’t you notice? I got that.”

  Out on the road, an unmarked squad car was already pulling up to the kiosk in the garage. I recognized the two cops, had only seen them 24 hours ago, one had even questioned us at the crime scene. Not good.

  I snatched the paper from Joel’s hands. “Follow me.” Seconds later, I stepped between two rows of cars, turned so my back was to the cops. Joel took the hint, did the same. I pointed to the sheet, pointed to the car. Sheet, then the next car.

  Joel frowned but kept his voice to a whisper. “But if we’d rented one, wouldn’t we just get a fob from the clerk? Press the button and light her up?”

  “We don’t have a fob.”

  “Exactly. How long before the cops figure that out, too?”

  A peek over my shoulder. Pretty sure the cop who had questioned us looked away right as I caught his eye. “Fine, but wait.”

  The cops wouldn’t zero in on us. Not right away. They would want to go inside and talk to that clerk first.

  So as soon as they headed towards the sliding glass doors …

  “Wait,” I said, grabbed Joel’s arm and took a deep breath.

  In they went.

  “Let’s go.”

  He was way ahead of me. Literally. I had to run to catch up. Barely had time to wonder how the concept of inconspicuous
retreat could escape an ex-Marine. But we made it back to the Tahoe and cranked up just as the cops waltzed out of the sliding doors and tried to flag us down.

  But we were gone.

  Down the ramp, held up a moment at the ticket gate, and then out again, this time heading into St. Paul.

  Heart racing.

  Couldn’t take much more excitement tonight.

  I got out my phone and set it on top of the paper in my lap, found the renter’s name and looked it up online.

  “It’s going to be a fake name,” Joel said. “Fake address. Or a stolen card, something like that.”

  I nodded. “Same thought here. But sometimes the way they fake it can tell you something.”

  “Like what?”

  I shrugged. “Their sense of humor?”

  “Shit.”

  I looked up. Nothing but open road and a few cars on either side. “What?”

  “Trooper going the other way.” Joel looked in his rearview. “Yep, hitting his brake lights, about to turn around. Hang on.”

  He sped up. Not just sped up. He sped up!

  My phone fell out of my lap. I reached for it, felt too many muscles straining, but just about got my fingers around it. Joel took an exit and then a left turn and then a right turn. Opened her up again. It was only a few miles down the way when we saw the flashing lights turn onto the road behind us.

  Another left, sudden. Nearly slammed my face against the window. Then a right, a left, a left, and then a slow cruise until Joel turned the headlights off and pulled into a small parking lot behind a guitar store.

  He jumped out, slid back the driver’s seat, grabbed a long flashlight from underneath it, and smashed the plastic panel under the steering wheel until it fell off. Ripped out a few wires. I was fascinated.

  “Had to do this to a few Humvees in Iraq.”

  “Hotwire them?”