by Anna Carey
You run through the list again, turning over the facts, sorting them out like tiny precious stones. You woke up on the subway tracks in Los Angeles. You were led to an office downtown that was set up to look as though you’d robbed it. You know how to open a door with a knife blade, and you’ve probably done it many times before.
Whoever drew you there didn’t just want you to stay away from the police, they needed to be certain you couldn’t go to them, no matter how desperate you were. They meant for you to get caught . . . but why?
You don’t want to turn on the TV, afraid you might see the photo again. Instead you pick up the motel phone and dial the number from the notepad. The number of Garner Consulting. It rings and rings and rings. You hang up and try again, then again, but still no one answers.
When the silence becomes unbearable you open the nightstand drawers, going through them, looking for something to occupy your thoughts. They’re all empty except for the top one, which contains a black leather book. The words Holy Bible are embossed in gold letters. You can’t stop looking at the red ribbon that marks the page. You pick it up, running the thin strip of satin between your fingers. You flip to a page and the memory rushes in, the smell of incense coming back.
The sound surrounds you, that sad, hollow clank of your dress shoes against the marble floor.
It’s all so clear. As you move up the aisle you don’t dare look at the pews beside you. Instead your gaze remains on the coffin. It sits just in front of the altar, on a metal accordion-spring riser with wheels on the bottom. It’s shrouded in a white linen sheet. As you pass you set your palm on top of it, imagining that your hand could sink right through, down through the wood and stuffing and fabric, until it was on top of his. It wasn’t his body, his face, it was just an empty shell, as if the life had crawled out of him, leaving for some better unknown. How long had you knelt by the casket? Who had come and pulled you away? Then there was that sound—that shuddering, awful sound of the lid as the attendant closed it. A woman had hunched forward, face in hands. She hadn’t been able to watch.
Don’t look at them, you think, stepping onto the altar. You grip either side of the podium, trying to steady yourself. The church is empty except for the cluster of people in the first row. You can already feel them watching you, their full eyes waiting, and you know if you look up for even a moment your throat will close. You won’t be able to speak. Instead you glance at the pews in the back, a quick acknowledgment before staring down at the book.
You play with the satin ribbon that marks the page. You take a long, thin breath. The last thing you hear is your voice, somewhere outside your body, the words practically a whisper.
“A reading from Ecclesiastes.”
Then the motel room rises up around you. You are back, sitting on the edge of the bed, the sights and sounds of the memory gone. You drop the Bible back into the drawer and close it. Your face feels foreign and strange, and for a brief moment you’re so relieved to have remembered something you actually smile.
It’s a passing moment, swept away by a sudden flood. Someone has died, someone has died. You don’t know who he was or how it happened, but it feels as though some crucial organ has been cut out of you and life will be harder now, more perilous. You fold in on yourself, the tears hot in your eyes.
He’s dead, you think, not knowing who, only that he mattered. You loved him and he died.
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CHAPTER SIX
YOU PICK APART the donut. The slushy orange drink is too sweet. The DJ’s voice on the radio rises and falls in endless, annoying cheer. As you sit at the table in the back of the diner, you only notice the high-pitched, cackling laugh of the cashier, the incessant buzzing of the lights overhead.
Beyond the glass window, cars speed down Vine Street. The heat is so intense you can see it, the air taking on an undulating, liquid quality. You rifle through the knapsack, finally locating the notepad. You write the events of yesterday, feeling better when you are doing something, anything. You try to remember the exact words the news anchor used to describe the robbery. You pull the receipts from your pocket, jotting down the totals from food and the thrift store. Even after paying for the motel room you still have over seven hundred dollars.
You turn the page, going back to the list from before. The memory is hazy. You can’t recall the color of the woman’s hair. Brown? Gray? You just remember her hands, the thin, papery skin, her fingers pressed to her temples as she covered her face. You can’t say the color shirt she was wearing, you never looked at the paintings on the church’s back wall. Instead you write the only things that were clear:
- I had a memory of a church
- Someone close to me died (a father, brother, uncle, grandfather?)
- I was reading at his funeral
- A woman (my mother?) also lost this person
- There were less than a dozen people there
Your pen rests on the paper, just below the last line, and you want there to be more. You want to write something definitive, but all you’re left with is this sinking feeling, the grief covering you like a thin film.
You tuck the notepad away. As you reassemble the pack you’re uneasy. Something feels strange . . . off. A man with a ratty gray beard stands at the register, trading a fistful of change for a single donut. A woman with a missing front tooth reads a magazine. You turn, scanning the yellow plastic booths behind you, and that’s when you notice him.
He has thinning brown hair and tiny, marble-like eyes. He watches you in an obvious, unashamed way, not even trying to pretend he’s not. He wears a shirt and tie, the white fabric soaked under his armpits. You stare right back, everything in you tense, but he doesn’t look away.
Your body feels weightless and cold. You leave the tray where it is, not bothering to clean up the trash scattered across the table. You grab your backpack and start toward the door, but in the few seconds it takes you to reach it he is already standing, dropping his wallet and keys in his back pockets.
You start down the stairs and out into the street, trusting the cars will stop when you cut across. A truck slows a half block up. The driver leans on their horn. All the lights are green and more cars speed toward you as you run, your skin covered in a quick sweat.
When you’re finally across you wonder if you imagined it, if the danger was as real as it felt. You turn back just in time to see the man in the parking lot. He gets into a silver car. There’s a dent in the side, the gash stretching from the back bumper to the front door. His fingers rest on the edge of the open window. You can’t tell if he’s recognized you from the news photos or he knows you from before. There’s nothing about him that feels familiar. He’s still watching you, his eyes in the rearview mirror as he pulls the car out.
You cut through a side street and disappear into a parking structure. The sign reads ARCLIGHT CINEMAS. An arrow directs you up an entrance ramp and you weave through parked cars, eventually coming out into an interior courtyard. Inside the lobby, lines snake from the cashier around to the café. You maneuver through the crowd, past an elderly man in a Dodgers cap and a pack of overly made-up women. You push out the front of the building. A group of teenagers has just left the theater. There are ten of them, maybe more, and you keep close, trailing only a few steps behind.
As they start down a set of stairs you walk beside the group as if you’ve always been there. One boy has a skateboard tucked under his arm. He holds out an ID to his friend. “Maryland,” he says. “It works as long as they don’t scan it.”
The girl has a bright purple streak in her hair. She turns the ID over, tilts it back and forth in the light. “You got this at that smoke shop on Hollywood and Western?”
You are shoulder to shoulder with them, walking along Sunset Boulevard, when you glance behind you. The man has pulled the car around. He stops at the interse
ction, his left blinker on, ready to circle the block. He’s following you. You’re certain of it.
You move closer to the group, positioning yourself on the inside so you’re not as visible. The girls beside you are talking about a concert they went to and the black lipstick they picked up at CVS. It feels strange to listen to them, the tiny, ordinary details of their lives.
“Hey . . . do you guys know where I can get some pot?” You say, waiting a few seconds to let it sink in.
A boy in front bursts out laughing. A few “oh, shits” echo through the group.
“Are you crazy?” The boy with the skateboard looks at your ill-fitting jeans and shirt, taking note of the dainty purple flowers on your collar. “You can’t just walk up to people and ask them for pot. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I want some pot.” It’s provocative, but it works—they close in around you. You have their attention.
“You could be a cop,” a boy with braces says.
“I didn’t know there were teenage cops.”
The girl with the purple streak in her hair laughs. “I guess there aren’t, huh?”
You pause at the intersection, watching the sign across the street, the blinking red hand telling you Don’t walk, don’t walk. You keep your head down, but out of the corner of your eye you can see his car approaching. The man drives past, moving up Sunset. There is a decal on the trunk. ASK ME ABOUT REAL ESTATE. You look below, where the license plate should be, but it’s gone.
He stops at the next corner and puts his blinker on, preparing to take a left down a side street. You’re at the front of the group, watching him go, when your eyes meet his in the rearview mirror. As he turns the corner your legs are dead weight.
“Helloooo? Did you hear me?” the boy with the skateboard asks, nudging you to cross the street.
“Yeah, I’m listening.” You move deeper inside the crowd as you cross, but it’s hard to pretend you were paying attention. You look over your shoulder, waiting for the car to reappear.
The boy drops his skateboard on the ground, pushes off and away. After a beat he pauses on the sidewalk just ahead of you. He holds up a hand, gesturing for the others to stay quiet. “You’re not with the cops?”
“I told you. No.”
He points over your shoulder. You turn, looking where he looks. The man is there. He’s parked the car out of sight. He turns the corner, his steps fast as he approaches.
“So that guy’s not with you?”
You push ahead of him, trying to steady your voice. “No, he’s not.”
“How long has he been there?” the boy asks.
“He followed me out of Winchell’s.” You squeeze past, knocking into the skateboard tucked under his arm. “I have to go. Please don’t let him see me.”
The boy steps between you and the man, blocking his view. You don’t run, instead doubling your pace, trying not to draw too much attention as you move ahead. You’re at the opposite corner when you hear the boy yell. “What are you doing, creep? Stop following her.”
You turn, watching the girl with the purple streak grab his arm. The boy pushes his shoulder. The man shakes them off, jerks his fist back like he’s going to hit them. He steps to the side, then slinks away. He’s muttering something, but you can’t hear what.
You’re grateful for even that little bit of time. You can hear them arguing somewhere behind you, their voices mixed with the sounds of traffic, of cars picking up speed as the light turns green. There’s a massive store just half a block ahead. You check behind you, watching a boy with a nose piercing yell at the man. Then you duck inside.
The place is cavernous. Records and CDs are crammed into bins, album covers plastered on every wall. A man in an Amoeba Music T-shirt stacks boxes on a metal cart. You slow your steps, pretending to be any other customer, but your pulse is so fast you can feel it in your fingers.
There’s only one choice when you’re inside. Go to a narrow back room or up the metal staircase to your right. The rest of the store is open space, row upon row of plastic shelving. You go straight, taking a right as you enter. Two store clerks are so busy restocking DVDs that they don’t look up as you pass.
A rack of T-shirts runs along the far wall. There are hundreds of them. When you reach the corner, out of sight from most of the customers, you duck down. You part the wire hangers then sit back against the wall, pulling some of the shirts to cover you. A Nirvana sweatshirt has fallen by your feet and you use it to hide your sneakers.
You part the shirts just enough to see out. From where you sit you have a view of the first aisle and the space by the doorway. Two girls breeze past. One yanks a DVD from the rack and studies it, then puts it back.
The radio is playing a familiar song. You don’t know the words but you recognize the melody, and that alone is comforting. You are bent over, your chin resting on your knees, arms hugging your legs, when he crosses into the back room. He circles around to the second aisle. You catch glimpses of his shirt, his shoulder, the side of his face. You quiet your breaths when he turns down the aisle.
For a moment he is only a few feet away. You can see him from the chest down. He pushes his hand deep into his pocket. He pauses there, his breaths barely audible, and you stay as still as you can. He withdraws a phone and begins dialing. Then he turns, scanning the room one last time before he leaves.
You rest your head on your knees, finally releasing your breath. You dig your fingernails into your palm until it hurts, angry you went into that diner right then. Angry you’re here, in Los Angeles, still. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted you. The real question is who he is and why he cared enough to follow you.
Tourists swarm the back room. Five of them are in front of you, their orthopedic shoes just inches from your feet. They pull shirts from the rack, chatting about hiking to the Hollywood sign. An attendant helps a customer find The Godfather. The song changes again and again.
When you’re certain he’s gone, you move, taking some of the shirts for yourself, shoving them into the bottom of your knapsack. You pull one over your head, double-checking there’s no plastic tags or metal stickers on the inside. You leave as quickly as you came, sneaking out from under the rack. When you push through the doors, you’re careful to keep your head down, trying to avoid the store’s security cameras.
Outside, Sunset Boulevard is busy. Restaurants and bars empty into the street. Even when you’re several blocks away, deep into a neighborhood, you are looking for him. He is every silver car, every figure passing in a window. You cut through someone’s backyard and start through the trees.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
THE WOMAN IS waiting to hear her name. She is only waiting to hear her name. She is sick of these fancy dinners, these receptions, these people—all she wants is to receive her award. So when Silvia O’Connor, Bill’s wife, leans over to her, mentioning something about the salad, she is truly annoyed. Silvia is whispering, “Oh, the dressing! These candied walnuts!” The woman tries to smile politely but she just can’t.
Onstage, Reagan Arthur is giving a speech about the company’s progress. The year-end, the highlights, this quarter and that quarter. She knows it all already. They’ve listed the speech on the program as being right before her award, and she periodically looks down, wondering if the order has changed. The order has not changed.
Two seats over, Bill has his chin in his hands, looking at Reagan like he’s falling in love. She almost feels badly for him . . . almost. Bill was the person who’d been rumored to win. He’d had a vague smugness about him in the weeks leading up to the announcement. It floated around him like a cheap cologne.
Now she is waiting to be called, for Reagan to just finish his speech, to just say it already. . . . Say it. Silvia is still talking. Silvia is enjoying the wine.
&nbs
p; She looks around for the cocktail waitress but it’s hard to tell them apart. They all wear the same tuxedo and white gloves. The women have their hair pulled back. The men have slicked everything down. She’s about to raise her hand when one of the waiters strides over, filling her wine glass.
It happens so fast it confuses her. She feels something flutter over her knee and she thinks for a second that she dropped her napkin. It’s only then that she notices it on the floor. Sitting beside her right heel is a small white envelope. She turns to the waiter, but he is already gone.
She kneels, opens it. There are two lines of handwritten block type.
GREYHOUND STATION
HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD
She immediately knows what it is. She has a sudden surge of nervousness, her throat dry. She closes her eyes to let it pass, her fingers going to the pendant necklace, to the small medallion she wears. She is still under the table, still holding the envelope, when Reagan calls her name.
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HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER EIGHT
IT’S NEARLY SIX thirty when you get to the station. Your hands are shaky. It’s seventy degrees and you have the chills. You spent the night in someone’s back shed, but you couldn’t sleep.
As you walk around the Greyhound building you study everyone’s face. You watch the woman sitting in the corner, a rolled-up sleeping bag beside her. You glance at the middle-aged man outside, two bags stacked on his suitcase, making sure there’s nothing familiar in his features.
It doesn’t take long for the cashier to notice you. The pacing, the quiet circling of the lobby chairs. He calls out from behind a clear bulletproof wall. “Should be out there in ten minutes. Space three.” He points to the door.