Trust with Your Life

by ML Gamble

Molly’s eyes were huge. “I don’t understand any of this, Alec. But one thing I do know. We’ve got to prove our story somehow. And to do that, we need to get to a phone.”

  “Come on, then, and let me show you how to hot-wire a car, Molly girl.” Alec didn’t add that he wanted to show her how to do it because he feared he might pass out.

  “I’m game,” she replied. “I’ve broken all the other felony laws of the state of California this morning. Lead the way.”

  They picked up the satchels with their meager supplies and, fortified in some measure for whatever was going to happen next, Molly followed Alec to the truck.

  Chapter Eleven

  The blond man with the mustache dropped a quarter into the phone and punched in a series of numbers. After a few moments, the mechanized voice requested, “Four-dol-lars-and-eight-y-cents-plea-ze.”

  Swearing in Gaelic, his native language, the man fed in nineteen quarters and then dropped the nickel on the pay phone’s narrow shelf. It hit once, bouncing with a ping onto the floor.

  “Son of a...” he said, reverting to English as he scrambled to retrieve his nickel before the connection was broken. He grabbed it and shoved it into the slot, and was rewarded by the sound of ringing.

  “Maryland Relay. This is operator thirty-nine. What number may I dial for you?” asked a female voice.

  “The number is 202-555-6825. This is Mr. Trent calling for Erik Brooker.”

  “One moment, Mr. Trent. I’ll dial the number. This is a TTY telephone for hearing-impaired users. I’ll be typing in your questions and reading them back to you. When I’m finished, I’ll say go ahead. When you are finished, please say go ahead to me so I’ll know you’re through.”

  “I know the system, Operator. Please make the call.”

  “One moment.”

  Trent tapped his fingers on the shelf while the sounds of dialing echoed in his ear. “I have Erik Brooker on the line, Mr. Trent. He says, ‘Hello, Mr. Trent. What is your message please?’ Go ahead.”

  “My trip was not successful. I did not catch either fish or fowl, thanks to the work of a poacher. Am flying into San Diego within the hour. Go ahead, Operator.”

  The operator paused to read the response, then cleared her throat twice. “‘I am very sorry your trip was not successful, Mr. Trent. Please wait while I verify if your travel arrangements are acceptable.’” The operator added, “Erik Brooker has put us on hold, Mr. Trent.”

  “Thank you,” Trent said tersely. Several seconds passed. Trent looked toward the spot where he had gotten change for a five-dollar bill. This is taking too long, he thought. About to hang up to get more change, he heard the operator begin again. “‘Mr. Trent. I have spoken to your employer. He advises you to stay where you are, please. He is very concerned about these new poachers. He was hoping the ones you eliminated at sea were the end of the problem. Leave your phone number so I may call you again in one hour.’” The operator stopped, then added, “Go ahead, please.”

  Trent read out the digits unhappily, then slammed down the phone before saying goodbye or go ahead. He was furious at being given that last instruction, furious at the entire series of missteps, including his own forgetfulness in leaving his favorite leather jacket in that seedy motel room. From the ambush on the freeway two days ago until now, everything about this contract had been disrupted by mistakes.

  Trent stared at the departure board and saw he had just missed the 9:20 Los Angeles shuttle, where he could have caught the quickest flight to New York and from there to Dublin.

  Well, he’d wait the damn hour then, he decided. He stalked over to the small snack counter and ordered breakfast. As he sipped tomato juice, Trent caught the waitress staring at the lump on his forehead he had received during his skirmish with the Aussie. He glared at her.

  She scurried off to fix him three eggs up, runny, leaving him filled with a desire to track down and take care of Molly Jakes, contract or no.

  * * *

  MOLLY STRAINED TO SEE her reflection in the rearview mirror of the truck. She had hidden her tangled hair beneath the terry-cloth hat covered with pictures of dolphins, which she had purchased yesterday. But staring at her sallow skin and dark-ringed eyes, she realized she had no makeup with her at all. It had never occurred to her until this second that she didn’t have so much as a powder puff to her name.

  “I have to buy some makeup,” she said to Alec, who was combing his hair with his fingers before smashing it down with the soft, slouchy cowboy hat.

  “Nah, love, you look great. A bit light on kip, but a lovely lass, all the same.”

  She frowned and pulled up the collar of the warm-up jacket she had borrowed from the Geisha Empress, which she wore under their attacker’s leather jacket. “Dressed by Murder, Inc.,” she said with a sigh, eliciting a grin from Alec.

  “Hopefully that little bastard from last night grabbed a charter boat off the island, or is holed up somewhere.”

  “Who do you think he’s working for? Brooker or the bad cops?” Molly asked as scenes of that dreadful fight flashed through her mind.

  “One and the same source, I’d bet,” Alec replied.

  “We’re going to have to come up with more than opinion to prove that to the police, you know.”

  “I know. Got any ideas?”

  “Yes. We need to get a base of operation so I can make some calls.” Molly waved at the airline terminal. “Maybe we should fly back to Mission Verde and work from my house. With your theory, that might be the best place to look.”

  “No, we can’t risk that, Molly. Besides—” he stopped himself before continuing “—there are all those horrible memories for you there.” Even while he was speaking, he realized that she was going to have to face them sooner or later. “We’ll be okay here. Sailors feel best on the water. But if they can’t have that, then at least they need to smell it nearby. We’ll get you what you need.” Alec gave her an appraising look. “Like I said before, you look good to me.”

  Molly made a noise of dismissal in her throat, but became aware of a warm glow traveling through her. Suddenly, with an aching intensity, she remembered exactly how it felt to kiss Alec, to have him want her. Nervously she fussed with her hat and cast about for a change in subject.

  “Well, at least I’ve got some clean socks and underwear in one of the satchels. I’ll wash up in the rest room sink, slap on some makeup and feel better anyway. I need to get another pair of sunglasses, too. I lost the ones we got in San Pedro yesterday.”

  “No problem,” Alec said. He jumped out of the truck, which he had pulled into a space at the far side of the terminal designated Long Term/Overnight Parking and ran around to open her door.

  He was worried that enough time had passed since the murder of Rafe Amundson for their pictures to be in the newspaper, but he didn’t mention his concern to Molly before they walked into the tiny terminal. She seemed relaxed and at ease, and if he could give her a couple seconds more of that without fearing they were going to be thrown to the ground and arrested, then he would.

  After he called Alicia, the first thing he planned to do while Molly hit the gift shop for makeup and sunglasses was to peruse all the news boxes lined up like prisoners outside the building. Like any living creature being stalked, he wanted to know where his enemy was so he could tell how far and how fast to run.

  Alec held the door for Molly and looked over his shoulder. His jaw clenched and he hesitated. One of the fifteen or so cars parked in the front of the airport was a blue-and-white California Highway Patrol vehicle.

  Molly didn’t focus on the people. She was busy surveying the sunny little room. It smelled of coffee, syrup and burned hot dogs, but seemed clean enough. The airline reservation counter took up the back wall, and a small gift shop was tucked over to the left next to the public rest rooms, which had Telephone Inside signs mounted above the doors.

  The entire right wall, windowed floor-to-ceiling, faced the airfield. A coffee shop and snack bar, which includ
ed six round tables, were the busiest part of the terminal. A dozen people sat singly or in twos, and four stools at the six-stool snack bar were taken.

  “Strewth,” Alec said in a low tone.

  “What kind of word is that?” Molly asked. “An Australian curse?”

  “Yeah. An all-purpose one.”

  The seriousness of his tone made Molly turn and look into Alec’s eyes. She knew immediately that something was wrong. He was staring at one of the tables in the eating area. She followed his gaze and saw a burly, white-haired man in a police uniform, chatting with a young woman. He was sitting sideways to their position. The sunlight flashed off his sunglasses and the handle of his holstered gun.

  “What should we do?” she whispered.

  “Buy you some makeup,” he replied, taking her by the arm and steering her into the gift shop.

  There was one other customer inside, a young, pregnant woman who was chatting with the cashier about her baby’s impending birth.

  “Which bag are the guns in?” Alec asked.

  Molly’s eyes widened. He wasn’t contemplating a shoot-out with the cops, was he? she asked herself. “Alec, you’re not—”

  “I need to know where they are,” he interrupted, “in case we get stopped by that cop out there. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt anyone I don’t have to. Especially a cop.”

  “I’m not sure that’s very reassuring,” she whispered, glancing at the two women at the counter. So far, they had not noticed her anxious conversation with Alec. “They’re in the blue bag,” she answered.

  Alec surprised her by giving her a sudden kiss on the mouth. In his normal voice he said, “All right, Peggy, you get what you need. I’ve got a call to make, then I’ll buy you some lunch.”

  He was attempting to speak without his Australian accent, and Molly frowned at him. Besides sounding like a drunk, it was only 10:00 a.m., hardly time for lunch! So much for Alec throwing people off their trail.

  Without waiting for her response, Alec turned and walked casually out of the gift shop. Molly hurriedly picked out grooming essentials and a lipstick, a tube of tinted sunscreen and a bottle of shampoo. The display of sunglasses was at the counter. Trying to look normal, she strolled up to it just as a good-looking young man with a shaved head brought in two bundles of newspapers.

  While Molly tried on several pairs of glasses, she positioned the mirror so she could watch the exit of the rest room. The mother-to-be said her goodbyes to the cashier, and Molly handed over her own purchases to be totaled up.

  Alec had yet to reappear. It was after 10:00 a.m., however. He was probably having trouble getting through to Alicia Chen, since he had promised to call her at nine sharp.

  Hoping Alec had the woman’s work number, Molly reached into the side pocket of the leather jacket for her money. The pocket was empty except for a piece of paper. The phone number, 202-555-6825, was written on it.

  Delighted at this clue left behind by the blond man, she hastily stuck it back in the jacket and found her money in the other pocket. As she was waiting for the woman to make change, she looked down at the stack of newspapers. Her mouth fell open and she gasped. The front page carried a picture of Alec Steele, alongside a three-by-five black-and-white photo of her. It was the one on her Pacific Communications security identification badge, taken three years ago.

  “Miss, here’s your change. You need some antacids, too?”

  Molly jerked her head around to face the cashier. “What?”

  The woman wiggled a roll of blue-and-white-wrapped tablets in her hand. “You like the last lady? God a bad stomach today?” she grinned and stared at Molly’s midsection. “You going to be a mommy, too?”

  “No, no, no, thank you,” Molly rattled off. She turned and started walking toward the rest rooms. Her face was flushed and hot, and she damned the fact she had eaten those sandwiches. At that moment, they felt like ten pounds of rocks in her stomach.

  “Miss, miss! Stop!” she heard the cashier yell behind her.

  Molly stopped and turned, her eyes fearfully seeking out the police officer. He was facing in her direction, staring at her, as were most of the customers.

  The cashier was running toward Molly, carrying a pastel-colored paper bag. “You forgot your things, miss.”

  With trembling hands, Molly reached out and took the package. “Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to swallow the bile burning at the back of her throat.

  The young woman walked back to her store as Molly slowly turned. Everyone began eating again. Without running, she covered the space between her and the ladies’ room in record time.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said aloud when she found the outer waiting room vacant. But her relief was short-lived. With her picture on the front page of the Los Angeles Times, she and Alec were running out of time. Hurrying through a rudimentary grooming, Molly was peeking out the door for Alec within five minutes of her arrival.

  There was no sign of him. She shut the door and locked herself in one of the bathroom stalls. Sitting on the commode with the lid down, she tried to keep herself from hyperventilating. Her watch read 10:18. How long did it take to make arrangements? she wondered. They had to get out of here before someone looked up from their newly delivered newspaper and found themselves face-to-face with California’s newest fugitives.

  Molly looked at her watch again. It still read 10:18. With a sigh, she decided she would give Alec five more minutes to appear, then she was going to go in after him.

  * * *

  ALEC CHECKED HIS WATCH and stared down at his scuffed boots. He had left a message on Alicia’s home answering machine twice and called her office. The receptionist had told him, “Dr. Chen is expected in at around ten, sir.”

  He’d replied, “It’s five minutes after ten, miss. Do you have a more accurate estimate than that?” and been put on hold.

  The young woman had returned curtly, “Please give me your name and number, and I’ll have Dr. Chen ring you between sessions.”

  Alec had given her the number of the pay phone in the rest-room lounge. His message was “Sorry I wasn’t available as arranged at nine. Please call.” The receptionist had not wanted to let him hang up without leaving his name, so he did the honors for her.

  Ten minutes later, he was still staring at the phone, willing it to ring. It wasn’t safe for him and Molly to be mingling with strangers in a public facility, of that he was sure. But he had to get medical help. During the past few minutes, he had begun to ache badly. And to sweat.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, he had a fever along with his very stiff neck. He had risked a glance at the tape-covered alien on his neck and found it looked infected. As he paced a few steps back and forth, the minutes dripping by second by second, he began to worry he really might pass out.

  It was Molly’s worst fear coming true, he realized. The damn thing in his neck was stopping him in his tracks. When his pacing led him the three steps toward the bathroom door, he went on through, feeling more light-headed with each shallow breath. His chest hurt. His ears rang when he turned on the water, and the image he saw reflected in the mirror wasn’t pretty. If he didn’t know better, he would say the pupil in his left eye was dilated more than the one in his right eye.

  He splashed cold water on his face and neck. When his hat fell into the sink, he took it out and shook it off, lost his balance and crashed to the floor. The room spun and his stomach clenched. Fighting to keep conscious, Alec was aware only of the bare bulb above him, the grimy white linoleum against his cheek and a pair of black leather boots on the floor in the stall three feet away.

  “Mister,” he rasped, trying to move up on his knees. “Please, I need help.”

  The door of the stall opened. The man spoke in a voice that floated above Alec like fog. “Well, then, I’m glad I’m here to help.”

  I must be hallucinating, Alec thought, for the man had a gun. With a last flush of lucidity, he realized it was the man from the Devil Fish Motel.
>
  Mr. Evil himself, back to complete the job.

  * * *

  MOLLY CREPT OUT OF the ladies’ room, slapped on her sunglasses, and, with a roll of her shoulders, pushed her way into the men’s room. She had a story all ready for the first male occupant who raised a fuss, but she was greeted only by a small, empty waiting room.

  With a phone. She stared at it and it rang, nearly making her shriek with nerves. Molly picked it up before the second ring ended. “Yes.”

  “Is this 708-555-1818?” a polished female voice asked.

  Molly checked the plate on the phone. “Yes, it is.”

  “Is, ah, Mr. Steele available?”

  “Alicia? I mean, Dr. Chen? Is that you?” Molly asked.

  “Who is this speaking, please?”

  “Peggy. Molly. I’m with Alec. His friend. I’m so glad you called, Dr. Chen. Alec told me you were coming to Catalina Island today. He really needs your help. We need your help.” Molly bit her tongue and shook her head to slow herself down. “I’m sorry, Dr. Chen. Let me look in the other room and see if Alec’s in there.” She started to put the phone down, then quickly added, “You won’t hang up, will you?”

  “No, Molly, I’ll wait for Alec.”

  “Good.” She let the phone dangle on its silver cord and opened the door to the bathroom. No one stood by the urinals or the sinks. But she could see feet in the last stall. Molly moved a little closer. “Alec?” They looked like his boots.

  “Alec? Is everything okay?”

  At that moment, Molly felt a gun in the small of her back. Someone stepped up to her from behind the door and a bony hand covered her mouth. “Don’t scream or I’ll kill you right here,” the male voice ordered.

  Molly, as a senior manager of Pacific Communications, had been required to take several classes to benefit herself and her crew.

  One of them was self-defense.

  Molly’s training ordered her left foot to stomp down on her attacker’s ankle and then kick backward with all her weight into the man’s shin. This same training led her to bite down on the hand over her mouth as if it were a beefsteak.