“Wait, man. Suppose she kills the hostage?”
“She won’t do it at my place.” Unless cops stormed the house and cornered Allie. ‘What’s she driving?”
“A Land Rover. But there’s a trailer with a hitch in your garage. Is that yours or hers?”
A trailer with a hitch. Of course. It made sense. His sister had planned this whole thing with exquisite precision. But despite her planning, things had gone wrong already. She would be rattled now, edgy, unpredictable, explosive. “Nick, just sit tight.”
“Look, I think it’s best to call the police, Keith. They know how to handle this kind of thing.”
“No. It’s too risky. Mira needs to be out of there before the cops are called. Trust me on this. I know Allie, I know how she is.”
“Okay, okay. I just can’t believe she—”
“You don’t have to believe it. Just take my word for it.”
“Listen, I’ll watch the place. I’ll be discreet. I know a spot across from the house where I can keep an eye on things without being seen. I’ll let you know if I see anything or if she leaves or whatever.”
“If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m in the air. But leave a message. I’ll check my voice mail as soon as I land. Be careful, Nick. No heroics. She’s dangerous.”
“I know, man, don’t worry.”
But Curry started worrying as soon as they disconnected. He worried as he paid for the water and food, worried as the Aussie approached him and Faye and said they were ready to leave. And he worried even when Faye said, “Is there a problem, Keith?”
“Yeah.” You might say that.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“No.” The sort of help he needed fell in the realm of divinity, miracles. He was terrified that he had put Whitford at risk by calling him.
Once they were inside the plane, he and Faye sat on opposite sides and Curry quickly shut his eyes and tried to sleep. But even with his eyes closed, various scenarios played out against an inner screen in his mind and subsequently wormed their way into his dreams.
Chapter 20
1
Allie stood in front of the bathroom mirror and proceeded to divide her wet hair into fourths, then into eighths, and clipped each piece together. She began cutting the longest sections first, just as her hairdresser had shown her, and worked her way around her head. The hair at the back was the most difficult and she had to pull it to the side to be able to cut it. She was using a pair of professional scissors that she’d bought from her hairdresser for two hundred bucks and change and the blades worked to perfection. After all, if she was going to change her color and style of hair, she intended to do it well.
Once her hair was cut to the length she wanted it, she draped her shoulders in a large towel and applied the Redken dye. The color and style would match the photo on her new passport and license, at least as close as she could get it. Even though the change was part of Plan B and she was still in Plan A, it wouldn’t hurt to disguise herself.
Forty-five minutes later, she washed out the dye and blew her hair dry and stood back, studying her new image in the mirror. She liked it. The color was reddish, the style was windblown, sort of carefree, completely contrary to how she lived her daily life. She thought it made her look younger, too, and it was a close approximation of the photo on her new passport and license.
She cleaned up the mess, put on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, pulled a heavy sweatshirt over it, and went out into the garage to do her last-minute check on the trailer. It was a used Airstream Bambi, nineteen feet long, with one double bed in the back, where she would put Mira, and a convertible dinette table, where she would sleep. The galley had a stove, oven, fridge, and sink, all of it snug and yet self-contained. She didn’t need to hook up anywhere. It had its own fuel for cooking, its own lights and water.
When she’d bought it, the carpet was worn, the oven didn’t work, the mattress in the double bed had been as flat as a dime, and the shower produced a trickle as thin and pathetic as that of a patient with prostrate problems. Over a series of weekends, before she’d brought it to Keith’s place, she’d had everything fixed. All she had to do now was top off the water tanks and load up the cabinets and fridge with food. Essentially, the baby was ready to roll.
She went back inside the house, excited now that she was about to embark on the final leg of her journey, the last part of Plan A. Even though the hair change was intrinsic to Plan B and she was leaving earlier than she’d planned, she was pleased with herself for being flexible enough to incorporate it into her original plan. And maybe, when it was all over, she would choose the ending of Plan B as well, and flee.
Allie rolled the idea around in her mind, trying it on for size. She could see herself driving straight to the Miami airport and buying a one-way ticket to some exotic spot where she could start over again, if she could see it, then it was possible. If it was possible, then she could make it so. It held an undeniable appeal and made her feel liberated.
No more ER, no more responsibility, no more playing God, no more adrenaline rush.
Can I live with that?
Yes, yes, of course she could. She would contact a realtor and put her house up for sale, have her Savannah bank transfer money to a Swiss bank, and would make sure that her father was cared for.
Keith could do it, so why couldn’t she? Where was it written that because she was the oldest, she had to assume all the responsibility? She was rich and still young enough to enjoy it. She could live anywhere, in comfort, for a very long time.
She finished packing her bag, cleaned out the fridge, and put the food into a cooler. She emptied the garbage and hauled several bags out to the trash can in the garage. She would pull the can out to the curb before she left and Nosy Neighbor/Divine Lover would tend to it on his rounds. Too bad that she didn’t have time for another romp with Nick before she split, but it was probably better this way. Right now, she felt focused and he would only distract her.
She would bring Mira out right before she was ready to leave, which would be shortly after sunrise at the rate she was moving. Once Allie got her into the trailer, she would handcuff her to the bed. She didn’t want to tranquilize her, but she would if Mira forced her hand. Mira hadn’t been restrained since Allie was last down there yesterday morning before she’d left for Savannah. She intentionally had left Mira alone, isolating her, hoping the long hours of solitude would make her a bit more compliant.
When she was satisfied that the house was clean, with things exactly as she’d found them, she doused the fire in the stove and turned the electric heat to sixty-five. She put her jacket and purse in the car, removed her gun from her purse, and slipped it into her waistband, under the sweatshirt. She raised the garage door and drove the Rover out of the garage, then backed up until she was even with the trailer. She got out and connected the hitch, then pulled the trash can out to the side of the road.
She stood for a moment, breathing in the cold, brittle air. It would feel good to get some place warmer, she thought. Although Savannah and Tybee got cold in the winter, the proximity of the ocean made it a less piercing cold than this. But even Tybee couldn’t compare with Florida in the winter. She shut her eyes for a moment, imagining what it would be like in Panama now, the eternal heat, the seductive scent of sea and salt and tropical lushness. Yes, she could get used to that very fast. Panama, then Peru, then into the Brazilian Amazon, with its wealth of untapped potentials. Then Europe. Hell, the possibilities were limitless.
But first things first. Time to get into the groove and slide into the pattern.
Now: Mira.
She went back inside the house, got out her gun, unlocked the basement door, switched on the stairwell light. She went down a couple of steps to allow her to see the basement, and spotted Mira in the bed, covers pulled up over her head. The VCR was on, volume low, Sleepless in Seattle playing, the light flickering eerily across the walls.
“Rise and shine, Mi—”
<
br /> Hands suddenly grabbed her ankles from behind, the nails digging through her socks and into her skin, and she knew she’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book—pillows plumped up under the covers to resemble a body. A scream rose in her throat as she tumbled down the staircase, the floor rushing up to meet her, and her arms shot out to break her fall. She crashed to the floor, air whooshed from her lungs, she rolled, but it was too late. Mira rushed her from the side, shrieking like some ancient female warrior, and kicked the gun out of Allie’s hand. Then she leaped.
Her feet struck Allie in the shoulder and sent her sprawling. Her chin smacked the floor hard, splitting it open. Mira pounded up the stairs, each reverberating echo a mockery, an abomination. She slammed the basement door, Allie heard the sharp click of the lock.
Gasping for air, blood pouring out of her chin, Allie scrambled to her feet and looked frantically around for the gun. She saw it lying on the floor against the far wall and lost precious seconds as she crossed the basement and scooped it up. Then she tore toward the stairs, a clock ticking loudly in her head. Thirty seconds, thirty-five. How many seconds would it take Mira to reach the road and plunge into the woods on the other side?
She still had to unlock the door.
Hurry, hurry.
2
Mira exploded out the front door, her bare feet sliding against the slippery porch, her lungs on fire, her injured thigh throbbing. She ran down the steps, but it was so profoundly dark outside that she couldn’t see anything—no trees, no other houses, nothing but the cold, hard darkness. She wore only a long T-shirt and the cold bit at her naked arms and legs and wrapped around her bare feet so that within seconds, she couldn’t feel them.
She stumbled along the right side of the house, scared shitless that her leg would give out and too terrified to scream for help because it would give away her position. The smell of trees and water and freedom filled her senses and shoved her forward faster, faster. Soon she would reach the road and other houses and cars and people. Except that it felt like it was the middle of the night. No traffic sounds anywhere. No human sounds. Nothing but the bone-numbing cold that poked into her sinuses like icicles and drove long, sharp nails into her ribs and encased her feet in blocks of ice.
She reached the corner of the house and bent forward, hands clutched at her waist, trying to catch her breath. She pressed her palms to her thigh, heat radiating against her hands. She heard a door slam shut behind her; Wacko was on the run now.
In the dim light that came from the partially open garage, she saw a Land Rover and, behind it, a trailer. She’s taking me somewhere. Mira tore up the steep driveway in front of her, her rattling breath now cut to sharp, staccato rasps. Pain erupted in her thigh and at the back of her skull, an ache of mammoth proportions, and then her body sprang alive with agony, as though the headache were a signal to the rest of her organs to shriek in unison.
Near the top of the driveway, she stumbled but didn’t fall, and when she reached the top seconds later, lights blazed, blinding her. She froze, her arms flew up to protect her eyes, her teeth chattered. Her tired brain struggled to make connections—how had Wacko gotten to the top of the driveway so fast? What was she doing in a truck?
But it wasn’t Wacko who leaped out of the truck. It was a man and he dashed toward her. Mira lurched forward, screaming, “Help me, help. . . “ And a dog started barking, then howling, and Mira practically fell into the man’s arms. He quickly threw a jacket around her shoulders. “Jesus, it’s true. You’re the Morales woman. I need to get you outta here—”
“Coming,” Mira rasped. “She’s coming. Has a gu—”
“Step away from her, Nick,” Allie shouted, appearing at the top of the driveway, blood streaming from her chin, down the front of her clothes. “Get back. Go on, move away!”
Just then, the dog leaped out the window and raced toward Wacko, snarling, snapping at the air, and Mira screamed, “Run!”
She grabbed Nick’s hand and pulled him away from the lights. Wacko fired. The first shot struck one of the headlights and it exploded, spewing glass. The second shot sent the dog, howling, off into the trees. The third shot got Nick. He made a strangled sound as he stumbled forward and then he fell like a giant. Mira knew he was dead before he hit the ground.
She ran toward Nick’s truck, its single headlight burning in the darkness like some lonely beacon, and scrambled behind the wheel. Shaking, her teeth chattering, Mira threw the truck into reverse, pressed her frozen foot to the accelerator, and tore down the slippery road in reverse, the truck sliding to the left, whipping to the right, to the left again. She slammed on the brakes, the truck skidded, the engine died.
“Oh, God, c’mon, start, please start.” She turned the key, nothing happened. She jerked the gearshift into park, fumbled with the key, turned it, and her frozen foot hit the gas pedal. The truck shot forward, and in the glare of its single headlight, time seemed to slow. It was as if she were a child again, being pulled in a wagon by a friend, the world passing by at a leisurely summer pace. She saw Nick’s dog creeping out of the trees to her left and the headlights of Wacko’s Rover coming up the driveway to her right, and Nick’s body laying in the middle of the road in front of her—and a man standing beside Nick’s body, staring down at it.
Where had he come from?
“Get out of the way!” she screamed. “Run, she’s crazy!” Mira banged her fist against the horn.
The man looked up and shock shuddered through her. The man was Nick, his expression puzzled, blood covering the front of his shirt. “Aw, Christ,” she sobbed. “You’re dead, Nick, you’re dead.”
Mira swerved to avoid hitting his physical body, his dead body, and suddenly he—his spirit, his soul, whatever she wanted to call it—was inside the truck with her. He looked real, but less solid than a living person, and when he touched her arm, she could feel it. But it wasn’t the weight or texture of a hand she felt; it was a spot of extreme cold on her arm, as though someone had sprayed liquid nitrogen on her skin.
I screwed up.
His voice was a whisper in her head, the sound the wind made when it strummed the trees around the cabin.
I’m so sorry. Keith asked me to rescue you. But I couldn’t believe what he was saying about Allie, I was watching the house, waiting to see if Keith was right. You’re in Prescott, Georgia, I’m supposed to tell you that. Riverside Drive, on the Coosa River There’s a cell phone in the glove compartment. Get it now. She’s going to try to ram you from the side.
Then he started to fade away. In seconds he was gone.
Mira snapped forward to open the glove compartment, but the door banged open on its own, as if Nick had helped it along. A light winked on inside and she grabbed the cell phone, a charger, and a Swiss Army knife. She stuck them in an inside pocket in Nick’s jacket, which she wore, then gripped the wheel with both hands to maintain control of the truck, struggling to keep it from slipping and sliding. But driving on ice was as foreign to her as everything else here.
Time slammed into fast-forward again and the Rover roared over the lip of the steep driveway, its headlights bearing down on her like some beast from the depths of hell. Mira jammed her frozen foot against the gas pedal and flew beyond the driveway and the Rover and raced up the winding road in the middle of nowhere.
Trees loomed on either side of her, a wall of pines covered with snow. Low-hanging branches slapped the windshield, leaving behind snow, pine needles, shit that muddied the glass and made it difficult to see. She hit the lever for the windshield wipers and the stuff smeared across the glass.
Oh God oh God, hurry, get outta here.
The Rover gained on her, coming up fast on her right, its headlights burning into the side mirror. Mira jerked the steering wheel toward Wacko, trying to force her off the road. The truck slammed into the Rover, jarring Mira to the bone. Metal scraped against metal, shrieking like an animal in pain, and the Rover tore along the shoulder, crashing over brush. Mira sped ahea
d, the truck’s tires skidding, the rear end fishtailing, and the
Rover pulled alongside her, neck to neck, and struck her. The vehicles crashed together, parted, met again, a duel of metal and screeching tires.
Mira suddenly slammed on the brakes and the Rover kept on going. She exploded with hysterical laughter that collapsed into equally hysterical sobs as she threw the truck into reverse and weaved down the road—and into a mound of dirt mixed with snow.
The rear tires spun impotently. Mira slammed the gearshift into drive, reverse, drive again, trying to rock the tires loose. In the windshield the rear red lights of the trailer sped toward her; Wacko was racing toward her in reverse. Mira threw open the door and leaped out. Her bare feet sank into loose dirt, brush, thorns, and then the trailer rammed into the front of the truck and the open door swung back against her, knocking her to the ground. Before she could get up, scream, or do anything to protect herself, something hit her in the back of her head.
She sank like a stone through honey.
3
For long, terrible seconds, Allie couldn’t get up from the ground, couldn’t force herself to stand. She was breathing hard, blood still streamed from her chin, the world spun. Not in the pattern, not in the pattern, shit, fuck.
She finally rocked back onto her heels, dug her fingers into the snow, and pressed it against her chin. Slow the bleeding. The shock of the cold snow against her face steadied her vision, the world stopped spinning. But when she took her hand away from her chin, the snow was bloody.
Get her into the trailer, then worry about your chin.
Right. Of course. First things first. She slid her arms under Mira, lifting her, and stumbled over to the trailer, blood streaming down her neck, dripping on Mira. She got the door open, but had to stop before she could attempt the steps. Mira suddenly felt extremely heavy and Allie’s arms trembled with the weight. Move, move.
Total Silence Page 26