by D. L. Wood
He nodded. “Okay. Yeah, that could work. We’d have to snag a room key.”
“Not necessarily. When I first got here I toured dozens of hotels as part of researching my article. Some of them had business centers just off the lobby, no room key needed.”
Jack considered that. “Sampson might have notified the hotels to watch for us. We still might be spotted.”
“Well,” she said, tapping the box of darker dye, “we won’t look the same, and if we do it right, they won’t even notice us. But if you’ve got a better idea . . .”
Jack inhaled deeply and shook his head. “No. But if we do this, we wait a couple hours. It’s still too early. We need lots of people out and about. It’ll make it easier to blend in.” He glanced at the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower, try to re-energize and,” he said snatching the blond hair dye out of the bag, “give this stuff a shot. Meanwhile, why don’t you try to come up with a couple of good hotel options?”
Minutes later, with the sound of steady streams of water in the background, Chloe flipped through the ragged phone book, checking it against her memory of the hotels with computer access. Using the dingy hotel notepad to make a list, she finally settled on the LeClaire Resort, a hotel complex on the opposite side of the island from Binghamton, on a strip of beach with several other resorts. She’d checked it out soon after arriving on St. Gideon and remembered the lobby being pretty busy. You didn’t need a room key to get in the “business office,” which was really just one computer in a room off the lobby. And one computer meant no one would be looking over their shoulders. Satisfied, she set down the pen, and more out of habit than anything, flipped on the television.
A minute later Jack stepped back into the room. “So apparently I’ve got to leave this stuff in for—” He stopped short, her ashen face and gaping mouth cutting off the rest of his sentence. “Chloe?”
She sat on the edge of the bed, tears filling her eyes, staring at the television. “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly.
“What?” he asked, moving to where he could see. A photograph of each of them was displayed in the top right of the screen, while the main view was of a rocky beach and a body bag being loaded into an ambulance.
“ . . . According to police sources, Kreinberg’s body shows unmistakable signs of foul play. Police would not speculate on motive, but did confirm that nearly $8,000 U.S. dollars’ worth of jewelry and cash was missing from Kreinberg’s residence, suggesting a robbery gone wrong. McConnaughey, Kreinberg’s neighbor, and her companion, Collings, are wanted for questioning. Police would not comment on whether there is evidence linking the two to Kreinberg’s death, but did insist that the two should not be approached. Rather, anyone with information should contact the Binghamton police immediately. Now, turning to the weather . . .”
“Chloe,” Jack started gently, putting his hand on her shoulder as he sat down beside her. “I’m so sorry.”
She stared straight ahead, tears now trickling down. “She didn’t deserve this,” she said swiping roughly at the wetness. “She just made the wrong friend.” She swallowed, sniffing back more threatening tears, an angry determination clouding her face. “He didn’t have to kill her. She’s not part of this.”
“He must have thought she knew something. You thought she’d read the mail too.”
Chloe squeezed her eyes shut, forcing more tears down her cheeks, and in condemnation whispered harshly, “Tate.”
Jack rose, and slowly began pacing. “This changes things. Now the whole island will be looking for us. And there’ll be no flying out of here. We’ll definitely be on some kind of no-exit list. Probably at the ports, too. And making us out to be involved, but not necessarily suspects, was a great move on his part. Since we’re only wanted for questioning Sampson can blow it off once he gets his hands on us. He doesn’t have to hold us. So—”
“So nobody’s going to be looking too closely. If he brings us in, he can say we didn’t have any information after all and that he let us go—”
“But he won’t. He’ll hand us straight up to his boss. Not to mention that he just undercut our credibility with the U.S. authorities. Now it just looks like we’re running from potential charges here. And if it comes to it, he can probably stick us with the murder charge just to keep us here.”
Chloe’s voice trembled. “I was all over her house, Jack. My fingerprints will be everywhere.” Her eyes widened even more. “A knife was missing at my house—” She gasped. “You don’t think . . . they used it to . . . ” She let the sentence hang, unable to finish.
Jack grimaced. “I don’t know. Maybe. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that cash and jewelry conveniently turned up somewhere incriminating—my boat, my work locker, your house . . .”
It was all too much. She buried her face in her hands, then ran them over her head, as if to clear it. If she could just crawl back in the bed, close her eyes . . . it already felt like she’d been up for hours. She dragged her gaze up to Jack’s. “So . . . what now?”
He sat back down beside her. “I think that we still have to know what’s on that flash drive before we do anything. But after that—”
“There’s no way we can just call a nearby embassy, or whatever, now,” she parried, taking a few strained steps from the bed, turning to face him as she moved. Her tightly drawn expression was fearful. “Jack, come on. I watch the movies. You know what happens when a ‘wanted’ person goes to the authorities for help?” She waved him in animatedly, as if directing him to come closer. “They say ‘sure, come on in,’ then they turn you over to whoever you were running from in the first place. Or they tell you to ‘come in and we’ll protect you,’ and somebody on the bad guys’ payroll blows your head off on the way to the courthouse.”
“Chloe—”
“We can’t call anybody now, Jack.” She dropped onto the bed. “We’ve got no proof that our story is true, and they’ll have every reason to believe Sampson. It’s just his word against mine.”
“And my word—”
“Yeah, your word—the word of a guy with two dead bodies floating under his boat.”
“You know, maybe that’ll actually help us. A planned assault by trained men? Come on. That doesn’t just happen. It supports our side of things. They can’t just dismiss that. Somebody will have to listen. We just have to get to the right people.”
“How do we do that? And who knows how far Sampson’s reach is down here? And what if we go ahead and call the embassy or the C.I.A. or whatever? Can you promise me that they won’t make us go through the process here? Can you promise me they won’t turn us over to Sampson? That whatever laws apply don’t require them to?”
Jack pursed his lips, then swallowed. “No.”
They stared at each other, desperation hanging between them. Finally, Jack spoke. “So we get home. We get off this island, away from whatever influence Sampson has in the area, and we take whatever is on that flash drive to somebody that can help us in the States, face to face. It’ll be much harder for Sampson to pull strings there, and we’ll have rights.”
She looked at him with a pained, hopeless expression. “You should leave now, Jack. Get as far away from me as you can. They’ve got nothing on you, nothing linking you to Ruby, except me. Just tell them we went out a couple of times till you realized I was nuts.”
“You’re forgetting about the two dead bodies feeding the fish under my boat.”
Her shoulders caved a little more, and she closed her eyes, sighing.
“Why is this happening, Jack?” she whispered beseechingly. “How is this happening? And how are we going to get back to the States with that,” she said, pointing to the television, “going on?”
He eyed her carefully, then spoke, his words cautious and slow. “I don’t know why this is happening, Chloe. I wish I could tell you. Sometimes bad stuff happens to good people.” He paused, as if paying homage to some memory. “Believe me, I know that better than anyone. But, I have to believe there’s a
reason. That it’s not pointless—”
“A reason for Ruby? Really?”
He didn’t respond, but instead inhaled deeply and clasped his hands together. “Look, first things first. Let’s get a look at that flash drive, okay? Let’s just concentrate on that. One thing at a time. As for getting back to the States, well . . . we’ll figure that out. I’ve got some ideas, but right now we’ve got to get out of here. That clerk up front—if he watches the news . . .”
She gave a quick nod, and he squeezed her shoulder. As they moved around collecting the few things in the room, a lump rose in her throat, and Chloe swallowed hard to keep it down. She’d been afraid that he’d tell her she was crazy, that her ranting about not calling the authorities was the result of an overactive imagination. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t listen, that he’d dismiss her fears. But he hadn’t. He had agreed with her. And that scared her even more.
TWENTY
“O, dear Lord, what have I done?”
Black curls littered the floorboards of Jack’s Jeep, as he stared, disgusted, at the scissors in his hands.
With big eyes, Chloe peered into the vanity mirror. “It’s okay. It had to be done. I couldn’t get the back by myself. And, it could be worse.”
His eyebrows shot up, his expression doubtful.
She met his gaze with a sad, conciliatory look. “Well, it’ll grow back, anyway. Just give me these,” she said, reaching for the scissors, “so I can even it out.”
The Jeep was parked deep in the woods, in a small clearing they’d found after driving inland from the Shores Motel and taking as many back roads as they could find until one finally dead-ended. A yellow-tufted bird called cheerfully, against the mood, as Chloe trimmed and snipped uneven hairs. They’d stayed in the room just long enough for her to get the dye in her hair and wash it out, then drove to this spot to finish the job. She glanced sideways to see Jack staring forlornly at her.
“Hey, I’m pretty sure I got the better end of this deal,” she said, nodding at his newly platinum head. The bleached blond look just didn’t suit him at all. The tone was all wrong for his skin. Anybody taking a hard look would see that. But from a distance, or to people just passing by, he wouldn’t be remarkable at all. And that would probably be good enough.
Hers looked less forced. The black color actually was sort of striking against her complexion. But the cut wasn’t her style at all. It resembled Emma Watson’s when she cut her long hair off in favor of a pixie cut.
If Emma Watson’s stylist had been blind and using garden shears, she thought dully.
“Okay, I think I’ve done what I can here,” she capitulated, tossing the scissors in the baseboard and turning towards Jack, who had moved to the back of the Jeep and was working on removing the license plate.
“Okay,” he grunted, twisting off the last screw. He tossed the plate in the back seat. “It’s better than it being on there, but no license plate will draw attention, too. We’ll have to swap it out. Actually,” he offered, running a hand along the vehicle’s side, “it’d be better if we dumped it and got another.”
“We can’t even get a computer. How are we going to get another car?”
Jack gently bumped his fist on the door. “We could borrow one—”
“Borrow?”
“Well it’s not stealing if you leave it for them somewhere else.” Chloe raised her eyebrows skeptically. He shrugged shyly. “At least that’s what I’d tell myself. But a stolen car would draw Sampson’s attention faster than anything. We’ll just have to pray he’s not on the road when we are. Maybe park a decent hike from the hotel and walk in.” He focused on her. “You ready?”
She nodded.
The path out of the deep woods was rough. In order to avoid the main roads and, hopefully, being spotted by Sampson, they’d had to cut through some pretty obscure areas in the heart of the island. The Jeep jarred them violently as it bounced in and out of deep cavities that marked what was really little more than a wide dirt trail.
“Hold on,” Jack warned just as the Jeep lurched and a heavy smattering of what resembled brown cake batter smacked his side of the Jeep, leaving a trail all the way up his window. “Sorry about that. I’d try to avoid them, but there’s more pothole than road out here,” he said, half grinning at her. She knew he was trying to make her feel better, and she tried to smile back, but all she managed was a grimace.
He squeezed her shoulder and turned back to the road. She, however, kept her eyes on him, watching him as he drove, completely composed. If any of this had shaken him at all, he wasn’t showing it. Square jaw set. Eyes riveted forward. Smooth, even breaths taken with quiet confidence. He was not the least bit rattled.
She, on the other hand, was completely in knots and not hiding it very well. One look at her greenish face in the side view mirror had proved that. Their situation already had her stomach on the spin cycle, and now this roller coaster ride wasn’t helping. She hadn’t thrown up yet, but was pretty sure that was only a couple potholes away. How to be more like Jack? she wondered, eyeing him. Was that even possible for her in this insanity? Gunmen chasing her, torturing her. Shooting Jack. A mysterious flash drive. Literally running for her life. Tate at the heart of it.
And there was the answer. Tate at the heart of it. Yes, this whole thing was crazy, but she had no doubt that Tate’s ambition could have driven him to do something stupid enough to land them in a mess like this. She wished she felt differently. She wished she had faith that Tate had cared more about her safety than his greed. But Tate had proven time after time that putting faith in him just left you disappointed. Just like everyone else.
She eyed Jack warily. When would it be his turn? Something like courage flickered as she realized that it was probably inevitable. Given that, she had to accept once and for all that this was her reality, as insane as it seemed. If she didn’t own that soon, things were not going to get easier. Helplessness and fear were not her friends here. They led to dependence. And when you become dependent on someone, anyone—even a good guy like Jack—you eventually get hurt. I’ve got to pull it together, she ordered herself. He’s here now, but he might not always be. Won’t always be. She took a deep breath, stared down the scared, queasy-faced girl in the mirror, and resolved to be tough. It was time to get control of this thing.
It was a half hour before they reached what you could technically call a road. At least it was covered with gravel and the potholes were fewer and farther between. Another ten minutes landed them on an actual paved road that Jack said would take them to the beach on the northern shore and the LeClaire. Sure enough, little shacks and sheds began sporadically popping up on the roadside, then more modern structures, until finally they reached the town of Tasso. The town had existed since long before the English settlers had arrived and had managed to retain its native name despite the influx of western influence. Like Binghamton, it was set on a bay, with wharfs and all matter of sailing vessels dotting its shores. However, unlike the island’s capital city, it was more serene, less a victim of the invasive tourist industry that had transformed the rest of the island. The locals outnumbered the tourists here, with the majority still engaged in the fishing industry that had supported the island for centuries. Tourists wanting a slice of the old island came here for the day; most fled back to Binghamton or the nearby resort strip for their creature comforts before nightfall. The LeClaire was part of that small, developed resort strip just on the other side of Tasso proper.
After rehearsing the plan to the point of redundancy, they grew quiet. As they rolled towards the LeClaire, Chloe kept an eye out for Sampson, or any police for that matter. But they saw nothing even remotely suspicious. What they did see were cars carrying tourists off for their day in paradise. Locals working in the fish and craft markets lining the roadside. Brightly colored fabric hanging from racks just outside shop doors, twirling in the breezy sunshine.
A family of six seemed to be picking their way from one of the dives serving b
reakfast towards a row of outdoor markets. The frazzled mother darted after a small boy as he charged out ahead of the group. She scooped him up, and he giggled so enthusiastically that Chloe could have sworn she heard him as their Jeep zipped past.
Why couldn’t that have been her? Mother, wife . . . part of a family. The same old thing she’d been wanting her whole sad life. A life apparently destined to forever move from bad to worse based, not on her own choices, but on the selfish, miserable choices of other people.
But not Jack, said a little voice in the back of her head. He was a bright spot in your bad, before it turned to worse—through no fault of his own, by the way. The thought challenged her need to protect herself, pitting it against her need to hope that maybe, just maybe, something good could happen to her. The internal debate raged.
If she let him, maybe Jack could be part of something good in her life. After all, he’d never done anything but look out for her. Was it fair to assume that, sooner or later, Jack would hurt her? Where was the proof of that?
Where was the proof he wouldn’t?
But she wanted to trust him.
But trust is dangerous.
Okay, so forget trust. What about just enjoying the moment—the uncomplicated . . . goodness . . . they’d shared before everything fell apart. Why couldn’t they just go back there? Where might they have been right now if Sampson had never entered her life?
Maybe they’d be in Tasso, combing the market for some trinket to send to Izzie. Or maybe they’d be taking that catamaran out for another afternoon of sailing, golden rays beaming down, Jack’s warm hand on her shoulder, steadying her—
“You okay?”
Jack’s voice jerked her back, and visions of the catamaran receded. She blinked, taking in reality again. “Yeah, fine.”
“You just . . . I thought maybe your head . . .”
“No. I’m fine,” she said, reaching to gather her curls in one hand, then realizing there weren’t any curls left to gather. Her hand dropped limply to her lap. A moment passed, and then he gently laid his arm across her shoulders and pulled her towards him. It surprised her, and she hesitated. But then, the lure of comfort beckoned her, and she caved, leaning into him.