Identity

by Shawna Seed

  Her anger at Brian seemed a faraway thing now. He’d helped her as much as he could, she could see that. The rest would be up to her.

  The mayor was on the radio talking about the hurricane, and she turned it up. He sounded reassuring and not worried at all.

  Then a guy from the weather service came on and seemed exactly the opposite, talking about flooding and storm surges. Ominously, he said the water in the bay had to rise only a few more feet and then the causeway would be underwater, cutting the island off.

  Up ahead, she could see a steady stream of cars turning left to avoid a flooded intersection. If she wanted to get to the diner, she was either going to have to plow through the water or go the long way around.

  Sharlah put on her turn signal and made a right, headed toward her house. She felt bad about blowing off Joan, because she’d always been fair. But Brian’s instructions had been clear. The weather was getting worse, and explaining herself to Joan was a luxury Sharlah couldn’t afford. When it was safe to come back, she’d go square things at the diner.

  When Sharlah pulled up to her house, the street was deserted except for her neighbor Well, who was nailing plywood over his windows.

  Inside, Sharlah went to the kitchen, planning to make a sandwich to eat while she packed.

  First, though, she had to do something about the rain that was seeping in around the plywood covering the broken window and puddling on the floor.

  As she sopped up the water with a dishtowel, Sharlah thought about the way Zuk showed up right after the shooting. He’d just happened to be at the same restaurant, and he’d insisted on following her home from the diner earlier in the week.

  It was warm in the house, but Sharlah shivered.

  She remembered, too, that Downs had sent Zuk out of the room at the hospital and then asked her which cop showed up first.

  She’d liked Zuk from the start, because she knew him from the diner and because he helped her with the couch. But maybe he was trying to make her like him.

  She wished she had someone to advise her, someone she could trust. She knew that most 19-year-olds would have called their parents already. But she hadn’t talked to her dad in two years, and he wouldn’t be any help anyway.

  Would Brian’s dad help her? Hadn’t he come to see her here at the house and cried in front of her and begged her to use her influence with Brian?

  Sharlah grabbed the phone and dialed Lowry Marine.

  The phone rang for a long time before someone answered.

  “Hello,” she began. “I’m trying to reach Mitch Lowry. My name is Sharlah Webb.”

  “Sharlah? It’s Kevin.”

  His voice sounded higher than usual, and rushed. “Oh, hi, Kevin. Is your dad there?”

  “He’s out on the lot,” Kevin said. “It sounds like this storm’s going to be rough. What did you need?”

  “Yeah, it’s getting bad here. I’m packing up to leave,” Sharlah said. “And I’m worried, because last night someone shot at me and…”

  “Someone what?”

  “I got shot in the arm,” Sharlah said.

  “My God. Did you call the police? Did anyone see anything?”

  “The police didn’t tell me anything,” Sharlah said. “I don’t think they have a clue.”

  “But you’re OK? You weren’t badly hurt?”

  For the second time in two days, Sharlah was pleased by Kevin’s concern. “They let me out of the ER after a couple hours. But I’m worried about the storm. Brian said…”

  “Come ride it out with us here in Houston,” Kevin said, decisive.

  This was what Sharlah had been hoping for – someone who would take charge, someone she could trust.

  “Could I? I’m kind of afraid to be alone.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll leave? You should get going before it gets worse.”

  “I can be on the road in 30 minutes. I don’t know how traffic is going to be, though,” Sharlah said. “And I don’t remember how to get to your place. Brian always drove.”

  “Find a pay phone and call when you get to Houston,” Kevin said.

  “Maybe when I’m there… maybe we could talk about what’s going on with Brian,” Sharlah said. “There’s some stuff I’m really worried about, and I don’t know what to do.”

  She heard Kevin inhale sharply. “OK, Sharlah. Be careful.”

  In the bedroom, Sharlah pulled her suitcase out of the closet and opened it on the bed. It was an ancient thing, a bright turquoise Samsonite that she bought at a yard sale for the trip she and Brian had planned to Austin.

  She had no idea how long she’d be gone, but she figured she should pack clothes for three or four days, just in case.

  In the bathroom, she swept up her toiletries and her makeup. After some hesitation, she pulled the boxes of money from under the bathroom sink. It didn’t seem safe to leave the money in the house, and she might need to show it to Kevin.

  The last thing she packed was the gun, still wrapped in Brian’s old T-shirt. She put it in the corner of the suitcase, wedged between her socks.

  The suitcase was hard to shut – one of the locks was dented and kept popping open. Finally, Sharlah put the suitcase on the floor, sat on it, and reached between her knees to close it. That did the trick.

  She grabbed her raincoat and her purse and car keys and was halfway out the door when she remembered the envelope with the fake IDs. She dashed back to the bedroom to retrieve the envelope, not wanting to leave anything incriminating in the house.

  When she stepped out onto the porch with her suitcase, Well was still out boarding up his windows. He spotted her and came trotting across the street, his hammer in his hand, catching up with her in the driveway.

  “Hey, looks like we might really get hit, huh?” Well peered at her from under the hood of his slicker. “You taking off?”

  “Yeah,” Sharlah said. She shifted the suitcase so she could unlock the trunk.

  “Let me help you with that,” Well said, reaching for the suitcase.

  “Thanks, I’ve got it,” Sharlah said.

  Well grabbed the handle. “Let me. You’ve got your hands full.”

  “I’ve got it,” Sharlah said. She opened the trunk and tugged the suitcase away. The locks popped, and her clothes began to spill out. Sharlah wrapped both arms around the suitcase and heaved it into the trunk, hoping to keep her things off the wet ground.

  “Whoa, sorry about that,” Well said. He picked up a stray sock and put it in the trunk. “Can I help you there?”

  Sharlah crammed things in her suitcase as quickly as she could. “I said I’ve got it.”

  “I was just trying to help you,” Well said. “Don’t get so uptight.”

  Sharlah leaned on the suitcase and managed to close it. She shut the trunk.

  “Hey, like I said, I’m sorry,” Well said. “Where you headed?”

  “Out of here,” Sharlah said. She opened the car door and got in.

  “Stay safe,” Well said, but she’d already slammed the door and started the car.

  Traffic on the main road to the causeway was crawling. Everyone seemed to be grabbing the last chance to leave ahead of the hurricane.

  Her windshield wipers could barely keep up with the rain, and the palm trees were beginning to bend in the wind. It was going to be a long, slow drive to Houston.

  She came to a complete standstill a couple miles from the causeway, and Sharlah sat, fuming, for five minutes. Finally, things started moving again, and she stepped on the clutch. It went all the way to the floor with no resistance.

  Sharlah let out a wail of frustration. The driver behind her honked.

  She pumped the clutch a couple times, but nothing happened.

  The road angled downhill, so Sharlah hit the flashers, put the car in neutral and coasted until she came to the entry to an office park. She rolled into the deserted parking lot.

  Sharlah sat for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do.

  She knew
there was a convenience store with a pay phone in the next block. She could call the diner. Maybe someone would still be there. Robin owed her a favor – Sharlah had given her rides when her car broke down.

  Of course, that would mean going back to the house and riding out the storm after Brian had told her to leave.

  Maybe she should call Lowry Marine and explain the whole story – about finding the money, about the police, about Brian telling her to leave. If they knew the spot she was in, maybe Kevin or Mitch would come get her.

  A big gust of wind swept through the parking lot, shaking the car and galvanizing Sharlah to action.

  She rolled up her jeans and fastened her slicker all the way up the front. She put the hood up and stepped out into the storm.

  The convenience store was jammed. Cars were 15 deep at the gas pumps, and the checkout line inside snaked through the aisles.

  A girl wearing an Iowa Hawkeyes T-shirt and cutoffs had the one pay phone tied up. Sharlah put down her suitcase and tucked under the building’s awning to wait.

  “We’re just getting gas,” the girl said into the phone. “We’re going to get as far north as we can tonight and find a motel room.”

  The girl paused to listen and kicked one foot impatiently against the wall of the store. “I don’t know, Mom. Oklahoma is, like, really far. Maybe Dallas?”

  She was wearing rubber flip-flops, the kind Missy always wore, and a wave of sadness rolled over Sharlah. Everything had been so crazy that she could almost forget sometimes that Missy was dead.

  The Iowa girl went on arguing with her mother about why she hadn’t called on Tuesday and why she hadn’t headed inland sooner. “We were too watching the news, Mom!”

  A cop car crept through the parking lot. Sharlah turned her back, hoping whoever was in the car wouldn’t recognize her with her hood pulled up.

  There was a newspaper rack behind her, and she made a show of studying the front page. The big story was about the storm, but a headline below it caught her eye.

  POLICE ACTIONS IN DRUG CASE QUESTIONED

  Sharlah dug change out of her purse and bought a paper. She had just started to read the story when the Iowa girl hung up.

  “All yours,” she said.

  PART TWO

  BRIAN

  SEVEN

  Brian tapped tentatively on the office door and waited.

  His father’s secretary was deep in conversation with another woman, their heads bent over a set of photos. Both looked up at his knock.

  “Sorry,” Brian said. “Darcy, does he have a minute?”

  The second woman hastily gathered up the photos. Brian would have greeted her, but he couldn’t remember her name. He aimed a smile at her, but she didn’t smile back.

  “I’ll show you the rest later,” the woman told Darcy.

  Brian stepped back, giving her plenty of space to leave the office. She walked quickly past him, her head down.

  “He’s on a call,” Darcy said, glancing at the phone on her desk. “Shouldn’t be long.”

  Brian hovered in the doorway.

  “Come on in,” Darcy said. “Have a seat.”

  Brian took a couple steps into the office and gestured toward his dirty work pants. “Better not.” He edged up against the wall so people in the hall wouldn’t see him.

  It was the last business day before Christmas, and the mood of most Lowry Marine employees was festive.

  Darcy smiled at him. “Do you have your Christmas shopping finished?”

  Brian had hoped she would go back to her work and ignore him. He shrugged and stared at the carpet. “Pretty much.”

  He realized right away that his answer was rude and regretted it. Darcy had been his father’s secretary as long as he could remember, and Brian had always liked her.

  “I got my niece a Tonka truck,” he volunteered, briefly looking up.

  “Ashley,” he added, then immediately felt like an idiot. Darcy knew who Ashley was – Kevin’s office was right down the hall.

  Darcy’s eyes widened. “Oh, how cute! Four is such a fun age.”

  “I know it sounds weird for a girl, but she said she wanted one,” Brian said.

  Darcy glanced down at the phone. “Your dad’s off the line.” She cocked her head toward the inner office door. “Go on back.”

  “Thanks,” Brian said. “Have a good Christmas.”

  Mitch Lowry was sitting at his desk sorting white envelopes.

  “Hey there, son,” he said, looking at Brian over his reading glasses. “Everything OK?”

  Brian shut the door and held his spot a good five feet from the desk. “The parole office called. They need a drug test today.”

  “Today? Did they say why?”

  “They said it’s random,” Brian said. “Is it OK if I go now?”

  Mitch set aside the stack of envelopes and stared up at his son, frowning. “Right now? Don’t you want to stay for the lunch?”

  Every year, Mitch closed the office early for Christmas and treated his employees to a catered lunch where he handed out bonuses.

  “There might be a wait,” Brian said. “The sooner I go, the sooner I’m out. It gets dark so early now, and I still don’t feel good driving at night.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to miss the lunch.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aw, don’t be sorry,” Mitch said, waving his hand. “I just hate the way the parole office says ‘jump’ and you have to say ‘how high?’ That’s not your fault.”

  His father was wrong, though Brian wouldn’t say that. Of course it was his fault that he had to go to the parole office. All of it was his fault.

  “So I can take the truck and you’ll catch a ride with Kevin?”

  “More likely I’ll be driving him home,” Mitch said.

  The Lowry Marine Christmas party was officially dry, but some of the guys had a long tradition of ignoring the rule, and Mitch had a long tradition of ignoring their drinking as long as nobody got out of hand.

  Until the parole office called, Brian had been planning to keep an eye on Kevin so his dad could relax and enjoy the party.

  “OK,” Brian said, turning to leave the office. “Sorry.”

  “Hold up, son,” Mitch said. He rifled through the envelopes and pulled one out. He walked around his desk and held the envelope out to Brian.

  “This one’s for you.”

  “I can’t take that, Dad,” Brian said.

  “Everybody gets a bonus. It’s not special treatment. Yours was calculated same way everybody else’s was,” Mitch said. “Well, in your case, I counted total time of service, before and since… since you came back.”

  “I still owe you for…”

  Mitch put the envelope in Brian’s shirt pocket and patted him once on the chest. “Thanks for all your hard work, son. I appreciate it.”

  Brian could tell he wasn’t going to win. He’d have to deal with this later.

  “Go by the break room and see if the caterers can fix you a plate to go,” Mitch said, returning to his chair.

  “OK.” Brian put his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

  “This thing today is just random, huh? Nothing to worry about?”

  “It’s fine,” Brian said. “Don’t worry.”

  Brian always felt conspicuous at work, even back in the shop, but he felt doubly so in the halls up front where the salesmen and secretaries and accounting clerks worked.

  He hurried past his brother’s office. Kevin wasn’t in when Brian came by the first time – late again – but now his voice drifted out into the hall.

  “So this thing’s got a million pieces, and I told Lynn, we’re just going to have to give it to her in the box, because there’s no way I’m getting that put together after…”

  A voice – not Kevin’s – called out. “Brian? Hey, Brian!”

  Brian froze. He exhaled and backed up a step.

  Ray, one of the salesmen, was perched on the edge of Kevin’s desk, a coffee cup in
one meaty hand. He waved the other at Brian. “Come on in here!”

  Brian cut his eyes to Kevin, who put down his own coffee cup and smiled. “Hey, Baby Bro. What brings you up from the shop?”

  “I had to see Dad,” Brian said.

  “Come help us settle an argument,” Ray said.

  Ray tipped his cup toward him – it held a couple inches of clear, amber liquid – and produced a flask from his pants pocket. He waggled his eyebrows at Brian. “Care for…”

  Kevin cut in. “Ray, he can’t.”

  Ray quickly shoved the flask back in his pocket. “Sorry. I didn’t know it was against your, um, rules.”

  “It’s because of my concussion,” Brian said. “That’s all.”

  Recovering his composure, Ray picked up a large manila envelope from Kevin’s desk and handed it to Brian.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it and flip to March,” Ray said, winking at Kevin.

  Brian looked to Kevin for guidance, but he just shrugged. Brian opened the envelope and took out a calendar, a freebie sent by a supplier.

  Calendars like this one, which featured models in bikinis draped over boats, arrived every December at Lowry Marine. In junior high, Brian and Kevin had schemed to get their hands on them.

  “March,” Ray said, prodding.

  Brian dutifully turned to March, which was graced by a blonde in an orange bikini with her elbows resting on a boat, her rump thrust out. She was staring back over her shoulder at the camera, and Brian thought her eyes looked dead.

  Ray punched him on the arm. “She’s something, huh? Who does she look like?”

  Brian glanced at Kevin, looking for a hint.

  Kevin silently shook his head at Ray and took a swig from his coffee cup.

  “Heather what’s-her-name,” Ray said, stabbing a fat finger at the model’s head. “From T.J. Hooker?”

  Brian stared at him blankly.

  “It’s a TV show,” Kevin supplied. “Nothing to do with actual hookers.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” Brian said. He offered the calendar back. “Sorry.”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you keep that calendar,” Ray said. “Your daddy won’t let us hang ’em around the office because the secretaries bitched about it, and sure as shit the warden’s not going to let me have it at home.”