The first step of successfully vanishing is to make sure no one sees you taking off. So, after ascertaining that the hallway and elevator were empty, I began the process of transferring luggage to my car.
It took me three trips, and once I had all the suitcases in my Camaro, I returned to the apartment one more time to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. My landline was ringing as I opened the door, evidently, the e-mail canceling my phone service hadn’t taken effect yet. My breath caught in my throat as the machine took the call. Was Gil already out of jail?
“Lexie? Are you there? Pick up.” It was Crystal. “Okay, I know you’re angry about yesterday, but I’ve been thinking. How about you take a couple of weeks off with pay, then once things cool off you come back to work?” She paused, then said, “Call me today, and we’ll make the arrangements.”
What? I still had a job? Maybe I should stay. I thought about it for a minute. No, even if Gil wasn’t threatening to put me in a cage like a prized parakeet, it was time to move on. To see where my real destiny lay. I’d read somewhere that no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay even. It might feel safer that way, but unless you keep moving forward, you’ll always fall behind.
Although I needed to burn rubber, I took a last look around my apartment. I had been there four years. Longer than I had lived anywhere before. Despite the fact that it was threadbare and tiny, it was harder to leave than I had expected.
Fighting tears, I tore myself away and got on the elevator. During the ride, I worried whether Gil might be waiting outside the garage exit. It was already past nine o’clock, and I had no idea when he would be able to make bail. If he was there, my only hope was he wouldn’t recognize me in my off-season Santa disguise.
It was then that I realized my car was a problem. Although I rarely used it, Gil had seen the Camaro. I had no choice but to drive the car. If I sold it before I changed my ID and bought something new, Gil could find the records. And if I tried to sell it after I was Alexandria Ravenscraft, I couldn’t prove that I was the legal owner.
Taking a bus or train to Kansas might work if there weren’t cameras at all the stations. There was a good chance Gil would be able to get a look at the security footage and track me down if I bought a ticket.
I was at a stalemate. I had to drive my car, but maybe I could at least disguise the plates. Looking around for inspiration, I saw a small pile of mud near the right rear tire. A fistful smeared on both plates nicely obscured the numbers, and since my hands were already dirty, I coated my cheeks, too. I knew blackface was politically incorrect, but I was hoping for a pass due to the extenuating circumstance.
Glancing into the car’s mirror, I rolled my eyes. Now, instead of Buddha, I looked like Fat Albert.
Hmm. Descending from a religious leader to a cartoon character in less than an hour—that was a record, even for me.
Having destroyed my cellphone, I didn’t have access to a GPS, so I had to make my way to Kansas the old-fashioned way. Luckily I had an atlas in my car, another quirk I had gotten from my mother’s lifestyle, and according to the map I-80 would take me to the middle of Iowa. After that, I’d get on I-35, which would allow me to cut through the northwest corner of Missouri.
My plan was to stop at Kansas City, Kansas and get my new driver’s license, then find I-70 and follow Mr. Mayer’s directions to Echo Springs. Too bad I didn’t have the money to abandon the Camaro and buy a new car in KC. If I couldn’t sell the Chevy, I couldn’t afford a new vehicle.
I put the tote bag holding the packet from my aunt on the passenger side floor within easy reach. It would be the one thing I would only abandon upon imminent death.
Then after tuning the radio to AM 780 for the traffic report, I drove out of the garage. A few quick stops at various ATMs, and I was on my way.
Highway driving is hypnotic, and after several hours I had stopped checking my rearview mirror every two minutes, removed the pillows from around my waist, as well as the hat, and used a couple of Wet Ones from my purse to scrub most of the mud from my face. I would throw away the coat at my first pit stop.
My stomach growled, suggesting the pit stop had better be sooner rather than later. The only calories I’d had in the past twenty-four hours had been from a bottle of champagne, which reminded me, I also needed a bathroom.
Following a childhood of eating almost nothing but fast food, I had avoided that type of restaurant for the past four years. However, according to the information I had read online, the best way to disappear was to do the opposite of your usual habits. Therefore, I took the next exit and pulled into an Arby’s.
Before going in, I stuffed the trench coat and hat into the Dumpster around back. I kept the pillows. No one had seen them, and they were expensive memory foam. I felt much better after a much-needed detour to the women’s room where I washed off the remaining traces of the mud. My scalp was still tender when I brushed my hair, but my head wasn’t pounding.
The menu had a bewildering array of options, and I finally surrendered and ordered by number, getting a beef and cheddar combo. Unfortunately, eating made me drowsy, but there was no time for a nap. Instead, I got a large coffee to go and prayed that I wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel.
I wanted to drive straight through without stopping at a hotel. The faster I got to Echo Springs, the less likely Gil would be able to find me.
Thankfully the caffeine helped, as did the great oldies station I found on the radio. Traffic was relatively light, at least compared to the Dan Ryan or Eisenhower, and if my homicidal ex was following me, he was keeping well behind.
Once, when I needed gas, I waited until the very last minute crossed from the extreme left lane to the exit, and pulled my car out of sight behind the station. Then I waited for the next fifteen minutes examining any vehicle and its occupants that drove in. There was no sign of Gil.
It was seven p.m. when I crossed into Kansas City, Kansas. So far, it had been a good day—no one had tried to kill me or capture me for his private petting zoo, but I did have one small problem. The Kansas City DVM was closed. I ground my teeth as I read the sign: HOURS 8:00 A.M.-5:00 P.M. SATURDAYS 8:00 A.M.-NOON.
If I had left at six in the morning like I should have, I could have avoided this dilemma. Now my only choices were to get a hotel and come back in the morning or to keep going and get a new license later.
It was tempting to drive on, but Echo Springs was another six or more hours away. I decided arriving at two in the morning wasn’t the best way to slip into a small town without causing a lot of talk.
I tried to recall what moderately priced hotels I had noticed driving into Kansas City. I hadn’t seen any on I-635, but about fifteen miles back, toward the airport, there’d been a bunch.
My only requirements were a clean room and parking in the rear. The Hampton Inn seemed to meet both criteria, with an added bonus of a desk clerk who was more interested in talking to her friend on her cell than noticing me. I registered as Jane Alcott in homage to two of my favorite authors, Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott, and had my story ready in case the clerk asked for an ID or credit card. My purse had been stolen, and my cruel boss wouldn’t let me miss this business trip.
But the girl didn’t flicker an eyelash when I paid cash. She gave me my key, mumbled directions to my room, and went back to her phone conversation.
I was tired, hungry, and my head hurt. The enormity of what had happened in the past thirty-six hours had begun to hit me, along with a vision of what my future would hold. In short, I was crabby. Finding out the hotel lacked room service did not improve my mood, nor did the fact that the closest restaurant was a Cracker Barrel.
On the bright side, no one who knew me would ever think to look for me among the down-home rockers and giant checker games being played on top of wooden barrels.
After a gourmet meal of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, I locked myself in my hotel room, changed into my pajamas, cleaned my face, and brushed my teeth. I had requested
a ground-floor room and parked my car so that if I left the curtains open, I could see the Camaro out the window. Before climbing into bed, I checked to see if it was okay.
I was worried about leaving my luggage in the trunk, but I was afraid if I took it out, I’d never get it back in again. I had only brought in my nightgown, makeup case, and tomorrow’s outfit. And, of course, my tote bag, which I would have Super Glued to my hand if at all practical.
It wasn’t even nine-thirty, but I was exhausted, so I snuggled under the covers. I must have fallen immediately asleep because I woke with a start when bright lights flashed through my room. My first reaction was to hit the floor, then, as the lights moved on, I crawled to the window.
Making sure I couldn’t be seen, I peeked over the sill and saw a hulking vehicle that almost looked like a tank backed into a space a few slots away from my car. It was too dark to tell who was inside.
A few minutes later, the SUV or truck or whatever the heck it was pulled out and came back toward my car. It slowed, then roared away. I crawled back to bed, trying to convince myself it was just some guy road tripping with a case of beer. The driver had probably been interested in my Camaro because it was a cool car, not because he was looking for me.
Surprisingly, I drifted back to sleep and didn’t wake up again until the alarm went off at five-thirty. Given that I would have to get my picture taken for my new driver’s license and also meeting my aunt’s lawyer and possibly several other Echo Springians, I wanted to take the time to look nice.
Once I pried myself out of bed and started the tiny in-room coffeemaker, I hopped in the shower. As I sipped my first cup of liquid caffeine, I dried my hair and applied makeup.
After I donned black gabardine slacks, a white long-sleeved blouse with an oval rhinestone buckle on the self-belt, and Cole Haan black leather pumps, I ran to the lobby and grabbed a bagel and a glass of juice from the free buffet.
It was a few minutes after eight when I pulled into the Kansas City DMV parking lot, and although there were already people in line, my turn came quickly.
The process was going smoothly, my proof of identity papers had been accepted, I had passed the vision and written portion of the testing, and we had gotten into my car to take the driver’s part when the examiners said, “Before we start, I need to see the proof of insurance.”
My heart clenched and skipped a beat as I tried to figure out what to do. Had I shredded the insurance card with the rest of my papers? No. I kept it in the glove compartment with the registration, and I hadn’t thought of them when I was in the midst of my destruction party. For once, a mistake was turning out to be to my advantage.
I smiled, reached across him, and retrieved the documents. “Here you go.”
He studied them a long time, too long.
Shit! He would ask why the car was in someone else’s name and I needed an answer.
He handed the papers back to me, and as I feared, asked, “Whose car is this?”
From his gray crew cut to his black oxford shoes, he looked like the working class guy on every TV show. Maybe if I claimed Lexie Green was my lesbian lover, he’d be too embarrassed to probe any further. No, that could backfire. What if he was a homophobe?
Okay, plan B, except I had no plan B and I could tell by the way he was tapping his pen on his clipboard he was getting impatient, so I blurted out, “Uh, my half-sister Lexie. We drove in from Chicago last night. She’s helping me move to my new hometown.”
I held my breath. Would he believe me or had I given him too much information and made him suspicious?
He nodded, made a note, and told me to start the car. By nine o’clock, I had my new license and was driving down I-70. I was a little surprised no one at the DMV had asked me why, at my age, I had never had a driver’s license. I had prepared a story about growing up in the city and never needing to drive until I moved to Kansas to take a new job, but I hadn’t needed to use that excuse.
Both the miles and the time were flying by and after a quick stop for lunch at a tiny country diner off State Route 4, I began to look for the unmarked street Mr. Mayer had described. When I got to the town of Buffer, I knew I had gone too far and doubled back.
Just as I thought I had missed the road again, I spotted it and made a sharp left. I could have sworn that the street had not been there the first time I drove past.
My life had always been a bumpy ride, but this was ridiculous. My poor Camaro was bouncing around like the marble in a roulette wheel, and I was fighting to keep the car steady when I felt a shoulder-dislocating jerk and knew I was in trouble.
I wrestled the Camaro to the side of the road, looped the straps of my tote bag across my chest, and climbed out. Dammit! I had a flat.
Swearing at it didn’t make the tire re-inflate, so I dug the manual from the glove compartment. The instructions said the first thing I had to do was get the spare and the jack, which were under the floor mat in the trunk.
It had been difficult enough getting three suitcases, a garment bag, and makeup case into the car’s tiny trunk. Getting them out was only marginally easier. When I spotted a huge black vehicle that I recognized as a Hummer burning up the miles, I froze and the luggage I was holding slid out of my hand onto the ground
Its shiny surface of the Hummer seemed out of place on the gravel road, and as it got closer, the sight of my demented ex-boyfriend’s face behind the SUV’s windshield hit me like the blast from a nuclear bomb.
Shit! Clearly, he’d made bail a lot sooner than I’d expected, but how had he found me? Had he been following me the whole time? Snapping myself out of my terror-induced trance, I realized that it didn’t matter how Gil managed to locate me because this wasn’t the time to figure out his methods, it was the time to get the heck out of dodge.
Sprinting, I rounded the side of the Camaro and dove inside. Where were my keys? Had I left them in the trunk? No. I had shoved them in my pants pocket. I slammed the key into the slot, turned it, and mashed down the accelerator.
The car took off like a panther with an injured paw. I hung onto the steering wheel, using all my strength to keep the Chevy going straight. Unfortunately, the uneven road surface and the flat tire slowed me down. A lot.
Just as I started over an old wooden bridge, the Hummer caught up to me and rammed my rear bumper. As the Camaro skidded sideways, I looked down into the broad expanse of a fast-moving river. The water was flowing at quite a clip, whitecaps skipping along its surface and debris caught in the undercurrent.
The idle thought that western Kansas must have been having the same wet spring as Illinois flitted through my mind. It’s amazing what pops into your head when you’re busy trying not to die.
I somehow straightened the Chevy from the skid, but before I could drive away, the Hummer stopped, reversed, and came at me again. This time the SUV crashed into my Camaro harder, and I lost control of the wheel.
As the Chevy spun round and round, then smashed trunk first through the guardrail, my heart was making a valiant attempt to escape my body via my throat. At the last possible moment, the car stopped, its backend teetering above the river.
One more shove by the Hummer and the Camaro would plunge into the deep water below. The next few seconds seemed to tick by in slow motion as I tried to figure out a way to save myself.
Twisting my head to look behind me, I felt a sharp prick right above my left boob. Thinking a fragment from the windshield had fallen into my cleavage, I reached inside my blouse. But instead of finding a piece of glass, my fingers closed over the arrowhead necklace my aunt had sent me. I had forgotten that I had put it around my neck for safekeeping.
Intending to take it off before it drew blood, I grabbed the piece of flint and an odd tingling radiated from my palm all the way up my arm, to the center of my chest. Before I could analyze the sensation, a movement in front of me caught my eye, and I froze.
The Hummer was backing up again. Gil was lining up his SUV like a billiard stick, and my Camaro
was the eight ball. As the massive vehicle rocketed toward me, the look of maniacal glee in my ex’s eyes broke my stupor.
And despite being fully aware he couldn’t hear me, I screamed, “May you burn in hell, Gil Osborn!”
Draping my purse strap across my body, I wrenched open the driver’s door handle and threw myself out of the car. The instant my knees landed on the gravel surface, I got to my feet and ran.
A quick glance back revealed that Gil must have seen my escape from the Camaro. He was trying to turn his Hummer away from my car and towards me. But it was too late. Velocity and momentum kept the heavy SUV going forward. It smashed into the much lighter sports car and pushed it over the bridge’s side.
Then, with a useless squeal of its tires, the Hummer followed the Camaro into the water. Transfixed, I watched as both vehicles rapidly sank out of sight.
I wondered how deep the river was. It had to be cold—winter had only officially ended a few days ago—and according to the mystery novels I devoured, once a vehicle is submerged it’s nearly impossible to open the doors because of the water pressure.
Reluctantly I returned to the bridge. Not to save Gil—I wasn’t one of those too-stupid-to-live heroines from some of the suspense thrillers I’d read. I walked back to make sure he was dead.
Surely, no one could have survived that plunge, but I needed to be certain he wouldn’t come after me again. I was not spending the rest of my life in a cage next to his pet Pomeranian.
Nearly a quarter hour went by, and nothing and no one came to the surface. Turning my attention to my injuries, I saw that miraculously, I seemed to be okay.
Now that the adrenalin had subsided, I was starting to feel some aches and pains, and while both knees hurt, the discomfort wasn’t any worse than when I had fallen off my bicycle as a kid. In contrast, my hands felt like they were on fire.
I winced as I picked out the pebbles and dirt from the abrasions on my left palm, then turned my attention to my right hand and blinked. Besides the scrapes from the gravel, it had a red and blistered triangular-shaped wound in the center of the palm.
A Call to Charms Page 4