One Week To Live

by Joan Beth Erickson

  People filled the casino’s shopping arcade. She merged with those strolling a lane lined with high-end shops. Stopping to study a display of lingerie in one store window, she again looked around her. No one paid attention to her.

  She weaved her way through the crowd until she entered a plaza filled with more people. Packed cafes rimmed the square featuring a ceiling painted sky blue with white, puffy clouds. An audience gathered to watch a woman dressed in a velvet gown sing opera. She hurried on, eager to find an exit.

  ****

  Brian paced the covered area in front of her apartment’s mailboxes, worry eating at him. Where the hell was she? When he’d gone to pick her up at five, he’d learned she’d left work early. While he paced, he spotted Angie’s car pulling up to the curb in front of the building. A black SUV pulled in behind it. Dunning exited her car and dashed through the pouring rain to the mailbox shelter.

  “She’s not here,” Brian announced. “If you’re returning her car, you can hand me the keys. I’ll give them to her.”

  “I’d rather give them to her myself,” Rich said, mopping his face with a pristine white handkerchief.

  “Do you think I’ll steal her car?”

  The special agent frowned, but said nothing.

  Like you stole my wife, Brian thought. The image of Jane in this asshole’s arms wasn’t one he’d ever forget. No, she’d never sought comfort in his arms after their son’s death. She didn’t need to. Dunning provided all the comfort she wanted. She’d claimed there’d been nothing between them, but he still questioned that.

  “Saw your article, Murphy.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “I don’t appreciate you mentioning a psychic being involved in this case. She’s not. When we catch the bastard and he’s brought to trial, the case can’t be compromised because it looks like we worked with a nutcase psychic. Is that clear?”

  “It’s a free country and a free press. I can write whatever I want,” he spat back. He’d had enough from this arrogant asshole.

  “Thanks to your damn article, we’ve already been bombarded with phone calls from so-called psychics who say they can help. Shit, they’re coming out of the woodwork. My team can’t be wasting their time fielding stuff from people who babble about imaginary visions.”

  “Her visions aren’t babbling.” He glared at the man. “And one of those nutcases you refer to might offer a lead you should follow.”

  Dunning ignored his comment. “There’s a killer to catch and time is critical.”

  “More importantly there’s a child to save,” Angie announced, breathless from her dash through the rain from the bus stop.

  She was sopping wet, her long, dark hair hanging in strands around her face. But to Brian she’d never looked more beautiful. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her into surrender.

  “Dunning, just because you’re an FBI agent, doesn’t mean you know everything!” she pointed out, impatiently pushing her wet hair back from her face. “Psychics can give a new direction to an investigation. I might not possess a fancy degree in criminal law and FBI training, but that doesn’t mean I can’t provide you with useful information.”

  “That a girl, you tell him.” From the expression on the special agent’s face, the man didn’t approve of her outburst. Too bad, Brian thought. She was finally owning up to her abilities and he couldn’t be more proud of her.

  She didn’t say anything more. Instead she glared at both of them.

  “Angie?”

  “What?” she snarled.

  “Where the hell have you been? I went to your office. You weren’t there. They said you’d left early.”

  ****

  “Where I’ve been is none of your business,” she snapped, fumbling in her purse for her mailbox key. After what she’d been through, both men could go to hell. She was pissed at herself for letting the kidnapper get the best of her. She should have stayed on the bus and tried to figure out who it was, but she’d fled. It took all her courage to get back on a bus to continue her journey home, but she had.

  She was tired of Brian questioning her whereabouts, and she’d had enough of Dunning’s superior attitude. She hated being talked down to like some kind of idiot. She wasn’t certain of her ability to help find Polly, but she wasn’t going to tell Mr. Know-It-All that.

  Yanking her keys out, she dropped them. The clumsiness irritated her further. Retrieving the keys, she inserted the proper one into her mailbox lock. A corner of a white envelope stuck out of the box’s side slit. The box must be packed with bills and catalogs.

  Opening it, she saw it wasn’t as full as she first thought. She removed the few pieces of mail including the slim white envelope. Curious about the contents, she studied it. Besides her name written neatly in the center, there was nothing, no mailing address, no return address, no postage.

  Without a mailing address or stamp, it must be from the manager. Probably a raise in the rent, something she could ill afford. Both men continued to stare at her.

  Deciding to get the bad news over with, she put her purse and other mail down at her feet. She then tore the envelope open and pulled out the single sheet of white paper inside. Unfolding it, she read the contents.

  Hello, Angie. Rub-a-dub, dub, three men in a tub or are there more? Brian got the clue. Now you do, too.

  “What’s wrong?” Brian asked.

  She just shook her head. “It’s the same clue you got last night.”

  “I’ll take that.” Dunning reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves.

  “He’s been here again,” she whispered, letting go of the note before the special agent could grab it.

  The piece of paper sailed to the ground. He quickly retrieved it along with the envelope she clutched. Fishing an evidence bag from his coat pocket, he placed them inside.

  “How many of those will it take,” she asked, her voice tinged with bitterness and growing fear, “before you collect the child in one of them? Tell me, Agent Dunning, do you have a bag big enough for her, too?” She thought of Tucker’s son and shivered. This time her granddaughter would be shoved in a body bag.

  “Ms. Martin, calm down. We’re on the case. We’ll catch the guy.”

  “Catch the guy,” she cried out, unable to control her emotions anymore. “You keep talking about the kidnapper, but you never mention the…the little girl.” She’d almost said my grandchild.

  Seeing Dunning’s facial expression, a horrible thought struck. “You think she’s already dead, don’t you?”

  “Ms. Martin, we need to find the abductor before he can harm his victim.”

  He’d never referred to Polly by name. Did he always operate like that? Distancing himself from those involved in a case. “And what exactly have you found since Saturday?” she challenged.

  “What we’ve found is none of your business,” he retorted.

  It is my business, she thought. The life of Polly is in jeopardy. She could no longer sit on the sidelines. Her visions needed to become clearer and more frequent.

  “Agent Dunning, neither Brian or I will be keeping our noses out of this case,” she announced, determination sparking her words. She looked at Brian who appeared both surprised and pleased by her statement. “While you play with your evidence bags, a little girl could die.”

  She motioned to Brian. “Let’s go.”

  Dunning blocked their way. “This is an FBI investigation, Ms. Martin. You can both be arrested for interfering in the case.”

  “Try it and you’ll be sorry,” Brian growled.

  They glared at each other. Dunning, his jaw set in a tight line, handed Angie her car keys. “Remember what I said. I don’t make idle threats.”

  With this he walked over and got into the waiting black SUV and left.

  “That arrogant S.O.B.,” she muttered, staring at the departing car.

  “I’d call him more than that,” he said. “We’ll move your car into your parking stall, then take my
car to track down this ‘rub-a-dub’ clue. He started to put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Wait just one minute, mister,” she said pulling away from him. “Before I go anywhere with you, we need to discuss your insistence on writing about me. You know how I feel, but you continue to do it.”

  “But—”

  “I need my privacy. You must honor that or we can’t work together.”

  He started to speak, but she interrupted him again. “And it’s none of your business why I want that privacy. All I ask is that you respect my wishes.”

  “I do. In the article I mentioned a psychic, but I never used your name. My editor must have added it.”

  “Really?” she said, skepticism filling her voice. “And how did he find out my name?”

  He stared at her for a minute then grimaced. “Probably from the San Diego article I wrote. I’m sorry.”

  “The damage is done,” she said, fearing the consequences of that damage. “I’m still angry with you. There can be no more articles.”

  “Agreed,” he said holding out his hand.

  “Okay,” she replied, taking it. The warm, firm handshake sent a tingle up her arm. She forced herself to ignore the desire shimmering in his green eyes and her own reaction to his touch. No, she told herself. This could only be a working relationship, nothing more.

  “Good. I’m starving. I know of an all-you-can-eat buffet not far from here.”

  “I need to change out of these wet clothes. I won’t be long.” Maybe she shouldn’t have left him standing by the mailboxes, she thought, scrambling up the stairs. However, the thought of them together in her apartment while she stripped her wet clothes off in the next room spelled temptation. Something she wanted to avoid.

  ****

  The line into the buffet restaurant wasn’t long. Soon someone escorted them to a table. He saw that the tropical décor hadn’t changed much since his last visit. Fake palm trees intermingled with planters overflowing with fake tropical flowers. A waterfall tumbled down the back wall’s rock face not far from where they sat.

  He always favored this twenty-four-hours-a-day restaurant when he’d worked in Vegas. No matter what the time, he could count on good food and lots of it. Once they placed their drink orders, Brian took her over to the buffet tables.

  The smells and sights appeared as appetizing as he remembered. Food station after food station offered everything from tacos, to Chinese egg rolls, to Italian pasta, plus much more. Grabbing a plate, he piled it with bright red crab legs, peel-and-eat shrimp, and a green salad. He then gravitated toward the aroma of fresh roasted meats at the carving table. Taking another plate, he loaded it with a thick piece of prime rib and a baked potato topped with sour cream.

  She had already returned to the table when he set his two plates down and joined her. She’d picked up a green salad and a few peel-and-eat shrimp.

  “Hey,” he teased, cracking open a crab claw. “This is an all-you-can-eat buffet. You aren’t getting your money’s worth.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She’d pulled her black hair back into a ponytail. The new hairdo emphasized the dark circles rimming her brown eyes. She obviously hadn’t been sleeping well, but neither had he. His worry about Polly wasn’t the only thing fueling his lack of sleep. Passion-filled thoughts of Angie kept him tossing and turning every night. The question was did she have the same erotic thoughts about him? Her actions so far said no.

  Forcing his mind back to the case, he put his fork down. “In spite of Dunning, we’re going to find Polly in time. I promise.”

  “Will we?” she replied, stabbing at a piece of lettuce.

  “Hey, with your psychic skills and my analytical mind we make a great team. Remember, I have a few psychic skills, too. They’re called reporter’s hunches. We are going to save Polly.”

  She didn’t reply. Instead, she kept picking at her salad.

  He studied her for a minute. “What happened this afternoon? When you arrived at your apartment building, you were upset about something. Besides being pissed off at me about the article, what else was wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Angie?” He put down his fork again and reached for her free hand, but she yanked it away.

  “Don’t,” she snapped, stabbing at another piece of lettuce.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  A bus boy dropped a tray of dirty dishes on the floor near them.

  She jumped and looked over at the kid trying to clean up the broken dishes. “I bet they’ll take that out of his pay, poor guy.”

  “You’re avoiding my question. Something triggered that burst of anger you hurled at Dunning. And your sudden desire to willingly become involved in the case surprised me.”

  “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

  He smiled. “That’s why I’m a good journalist.”

  “It’s been one hell of a day starting with that damn article of yours and ending with a bus ride from hell.”

  “What about the bus ride?”

  She took a deep breath and filled him in on what she’d experienced.

  He let the waitress pick up his plates of half-eaten food. He’d lost his appetite, too. “Did anyone get on the bus the same time you did?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was it a man?”

  “No, it was an older woman with gray hair who wore baggy clothes.” She stopped talking. “You don’t think that…Oh, my God.”

  “He could have been in disguise,” Brian said. “This time his game includes getting close to you as often as possible. He’s daring you to pick up on his presence and he believes you can’t.”

  “Well, I’m sick of his game.”

  “You said you got off the bus, where?”

  “I don’t know. On the Strip, I think. I dashed into the nearest casino.”

  “Did anyone leave the bus when you did?”

  “Other people got off, but I didn’t see anyone follow me.”

  “Did the evil feeling remain?”

  “Yes.”

  She remained quiet while the waitress refilled her water glass. “Now that I think about it, the old woman left the bus the same time I did. When I came out of the casino, I think I spotted her just down the street.”

  “Then she might have been following you. You just didn’t see her in the crowd.”

  “What purpose does this part of his game serve?”

  “Look at yourself, Angie. You’re scared half to death. He’s succeeding in frightening and disorienting you. He’s keeping you off balance. Preventing you from thinking clearly.”

  She swallowed before speaking. “The kidnapper called me at work this morning.”

  “He did? What did he say?” He wondered how the man knew where she worked.

  “Turns out that he’s the one who delivered the newspaper to my apartment. He told me to enjoy my bus ride home. He was planning something all along.”

  “He’s growing far too brazen.”

  She took a sip of water. “The clock is ticking and we’re no closer to finding Polly.”

  A little girl at a nearby table began to fuss. The fussing turned to giggles when her dad brought her a dish of chocolate ice cream topped with multi-colored sprinkles.

  “She’s about the same age as—” she started to say.

  “I know.”

  “One week to live, Brian. Only three more days before the child dies, and it could happen sooner.” Hysteria tinged her words and he hated it.

  What was it about this victim, he again wondered? Was Angie personally connected to her? “Let’s go,” he said, fishing in his wallet for the tip. “What does ‘Rub-a-dub’ mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shit,” he mumbled, following her out of the restaurant.

  ****

  The warm muggy night hit them as they walked toward Brian’s car. Looking to the East, she saw a flash of lightning rip across the sky. Distant thunder rumbled ominously. They could be in for
another deluge before the night ended.

  “Does your car top still leak?” she asked.

  “Yeah, unfortunately.”

  “Great,” she mumbled. Settling into the seat, she glanced around.

  “What are you searching for?” he asked, slipping into the driver’s seat.

  “The bailing bucket.”

  “Very funny,” he mumbled, shoving the key into the ignition.

  His cell phone rang and he looked at the number. “I’ll take this outside, you just relax.” She watched him pace back and forth by the car, his expression growing more and more grim.

  When he got back in, he didn’t start the car right away.

  “What is it?” she asked fearing it might be bad news about her granddaughter. She prayed it wasn’t.

  He took a breath before speaking. “That was the San Diego police. Ray Ramirez is dead. Killed in a car accident.”

  “What?” she said in shocked disbelief. Looking out at the glitz of pulsing gold lights and signs flashing “Casino” and “Loose Slots,” the news seemed horribly surreal. Not something she wanted to accept.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, his face reflecting his own shock.

  Ray was not only a former neighbor, but also the cop who’d believed in her psychic ability even when she hadn’t. While most law enforcement people scoffed at her, he hadn’t. They’d worked well together, and his wife, Sally, was a good friend.

  “How did it happen?” she whispered, still trying to digest the gut-wrenching news. How could Ray be dead?

  “I can’t believe it either.” He shook his head. “A hiker discovered his car in the Cuyamaca Mountains yesterday. It apparently skidded off the road, plummeted down a hill, and smashed into a tree. They found Ray’s remains nearby. He’d been thrown from the vehicle.”

  She cringed at the graphic image. “Poor Sally.” Tears welled up. “When did it happen? Are they sure it’s him?”

  “Yes, it’s him. They think it happened sometime last week.”

  “I don’t understand. Ray was a good driver.”

  “Thunderstorms plagued San Diego, too. They think he skidded off the wet road. They’re saying it looks like an accident.”

  “You don’t think so?” she said.